Leaving everything behind and jumping on a flight to Paris seemed almost unreal to me. Walking through the streets, past Parisians sitting at cramped tables, cigarette in one hand, glass of wine in the other. Laughter ringing out through the streets, with shouts of “devine quoi” and “avez-vous entendu?” insinuating they have no plans on leaving any time soon. Happy couples walk, hand in hand admiring each other more than the view.

I take a seat at one of the confined bistros on the street. The waitress comes over, hair scraped back off her face and shoulders, showing off her necklace with an initial I assume to be of her name, until her colleague calls her back inside, with a name not matching the letter round her neck. Eventually she comes back out to drop off my hot chocolate and my mousse au chocolat. I’ve been told before that this is too much chocolate in one go, but for me it’s just enough and no one is here to tell me otherwise.

I watch as two kids run by, yelling out in play and laughter. They are running off down the street followed by who I imagine to be their parents, rolling their eyes in an attempt to disguise their smile. The scene is wrecked when a lady falls off her electric bike. Passers by rush to help her up, one gentleman extends his hand, which she takes willingly. I think there’s a false pretence surrounding Parisians and their etiquette. While they won’t smile at you in the street, they will be first to your aid. By this point my hot chocolate has gone cold, while I’ve been caught up in the world of people-watching.

My phone lights up showing my mum, calling to wish me luck at work, even though I still have two hours to go, I think its her way to “subtly” check up on me. Now I’m the one to roll my eyes to hide my joy. Later the waitress comes back out, apron in one hand. Using her other to remove the hair bobble, letting her hair fall onto her shoulders, running to a group of other people her age, laughing as she goes past her colleague, turning to say “je me casse” before heading off down the same road I’ll walk to work. Her colleague calls out after her, before turning to take my mug and plate away. Leaving me at an empty table, with the sounds of the waitress and her friends laughter lingering in the air.

The walk to work was short, following identical buildings down a straight road, watching everyone live a different story, contained within the same brown brick walls and tall glass windows. People watching has always been a pass-time of mine. Guessing what people are saying, looking at the emotion on their face, why are they here, in this place at this exact moment, at the same time as me? Sometimes I wonder how many times I see the same stranger. I realised a while ago that people just pass through your life, almost like intersecting lines, doing their own thing, only crossing over once.

The Royal Monceau hotel stands taller than I imagined, the high ceilings decorated with twinkling chandeliers, glimmering from all angles. The elevators are narrow but mirrored, making the place feel larger. As they carry me up to the 6^th floor, I close my eyes almost in disbelief. My thoughts are broken when the ding of the lift door open, to reveal a long hallway, Hayley who I first met in New York is standing there, ready to greet me. As we walk down the late-colonial hall to the third door on the left, she’s telling me all about the looks that need steamed, what items should be pulled for the clients before stopping to look at me. “Something about you is different since last week”.

Walking into the hotel room, I’m suddenly hit with the smell of moroccan rose and the faint melody of french jazz. The walls are lined with clothing rails, filled with pieces covered with venetian lace, crystal tassels and bright coloured feathers. I do one last check of my phone before starting work. No new messages. I’m not used to the silence yet.

I go over to the window, looking down at the Arc de Triomphe, watching as parents wrangle their kids for family photos, couples buying polaroid style photos to remind them of their trip to the “city of love”. Behind me, the noise of clothes steamers bubbling is drowned out by the chatter of my employers, discussing what looks are the most important and the melodic tune of the background music. However, despite the hustle and bustle of the city during fashion week, despite the fact I’m standing in a room full of people, overlooking even more people, at the end of it all, I’m now on my own.