The greatest city in the world

The last time I visited Paris, I had braces on my teeth and problematic teenage acne pockmarking my face. I was going through a serious awkward phase and spent most of my days being driven around on a coach packed with 60 other teenagers with similar, life changing problems.

It was good to be back as an adult and able to walk around without over-cautious teachers ushering us back on to the coach at the sight of one too many transvestites, which to their horror, was and is a common sight in a city of this size and stature.

Armed with a phone, I attempted to navigate a city without having had the good fortune to have learned it's language. In their infinite wisdom, teachers at my primary school decided we would, somehow, be much better off learning German. I suppose I internalised this to an extent as I have spent much more time in Berlin than I have in Paris or any other French speaking part of the world for that matter.

I wondered how people managed to make these trips before the advent of the internet, Google and social media. Perhaps it was better then because you just went where your instinct or a horribly outdated map told you to go.

I emerged from the Bellevue Metro station as it began to rain. I can't, for the life of me, remember where I read this, I may in fact even be making this up, but Audrey Hepburn said somewhere that you should always have rain on your first day in Paris.

As the pavements began to shine like liquid mercury, I made my way up to my 28€ a night hostel on Boulevard de Belleville, enjoying the dying embers of what appeared to be a market, going by the smells of decaying meat and rotting fruit.

I was early for check in and remembered I had left my shampoo in Belgium and so, I looked for a supermarket to buy some. It seemed, for such a busy main road, there was nowhere to be found, so I wondered down some of the side streets. Dangerous, some may say.

The kind shop assistant must have spotted my pasty skin and knew right away I was Not From Here. "Anglais?" he asked. Offended, I shook my head as most Scottish people tend to do when asked by people if they are English. "Non, Ecosse." I replied in my broken, basic French. "Je ne parle pas Français." I said to him. Not unexpectedly, this man was of North African going by his uncharacteristic hospitality. He asked if I had just arrived and I nodded and he enthusiastically welcomed me to the city.

After that, I went to sample the culinary delights France was famous for in the nearby McDonald's where I updated my Facebook status. Of course everybody had to know I was here, in the greatest city in the world.

What brought me here, I asked myself. Operating under the principle of Occam's razor, I told myself it was because I was visiting a friend who lived near Brussels and I had time so, why not make the short journey over to Paris? I also craved an adventure. I was about to embark upon a career as a teacher and so, there wouldn't be much time for that anymore. I wanted to go to Paris on my own. As an only child, I enjoyed my own company, sometimes more than I did when I was with other people. I could get up when I wanted, get ready when I wanted, go out when I wanted and do what I wanted, when I wanted to do it.

Perhaps that craving of an adventure and wanting to be on my own should have been a recognisable sign that I had the Wrong Decision when it came to my career. In the back of my mind, it was. But I couldn't let down my family or friends who were rooting for me to do well. Teaching - at least in the UK - is a job that requires reams of advanced planning and execution to get right, but I had never been one for planning meticulously. By all mean have the bare bones of a plan, but have flexibility.

Let me tell you this was not an attitude suited to being a teacher in a UK primary school.

My trip to Paris was a hodge podge of adventure punctuated by sporadic romance, sharing a sunset and some Heinekens on the steps of the Sacre Couer with a group of fun but ultimately uninteresting people.

Not long after I started back at school, I decided this wasn't a career I wanted to be in. I was hemmed in by the rules and regulations of being a teacher, forever being watched for my latest fuck up. So, I sat down with the head teacher who asked me if I had children, a mortgage or any other commitments. No, I told her. I live with my mum and dad.

"Then run for the fucking hills." she told me. So I did. I walked out of the door of that school, a lovely school with great children though it was, and never looked back.

Thank you to Paris, the greatest city in the world, for giving me the adventure I needed.