paradise.

Nothing was irrevocable; everything was within reach. I could make promises to myself and to other people and there would be all the time in the world to keep them. I could stay up all night and make mistakes, and none of them would count... it never occurred to me that I was living a real life there.

- Joan Didion, Goodbye to All That.

You see, I'm still looking for that perfect place. That place that half exists in daydreams and comes to life when you're staring into the fire and see fanciful images in swirls of black smoke.

You know, the place with that peculiar atmosphere of a mix of literature and funkily classic living. Where I can be forever young, independent and professional, and make a home for myself in a skinny little two-storey townhouse with a grumpy little cat. With an old stone cathedral just nearby - when I push gently at its old wooden oaken door, it opens with a complaining creak and shows me the spectacle of morning sunshine winking at me from the high stained glass windows of Mother and Child, and at this moment I faintly notice the scent of dying, diminishing roses. Red and white. Everywhere.

The local cafe is run by a Polish family and refuses to buy into "modernity", staying small, stuffy, and constantly pervaded with the rich aroma of coffee. It's the place people go to write, read, and sketch the passing crowd, or just to indulge in watching people go by. The proprietor is fat and loud, but also very friendly. Every time he sees me he breaks into a hearty grin and exclaims "Oh you ere agn, muz be my kof-ee iz goot, no? You go sit miz, I be rief wif you!", at which I laugh and tease him about having a bigger belly than when I saw him last. They also sell good chocolate, which the lady prepares by herself - she sometimes gives me a few for free in appreciation of the Chinese tea I give them whenever I get some.

The watering hole I frequent is a cross between a swanky pub and a cocktail bar, and always has live music. The sounds of funky jazz waft through the night air out onto the empty street, and some people I know are on the dance floor. I sink into a dark green velvet couch that is vaguely vintage, holding something that tastes sweetly bitter and slightly alcoholic, smiling at the stranger seated beside me – the beginning of a night of Shakespeare and Auden, Hardy and Dickenson. Words that interweave and stories that are told as one looks out into the night sky. I decline the offer of a ride home and start walking, only to relent later as he drives by and insists that a lady should not be out alone at this time of the night. I accept even though I know that this city is harmless, that I've done this more than a dozen times and nothing's ever happened. After all, who knows?

A dream, of course - this city. Always a city. City of possibilities and continual wonder. I sometimes see a flash of it; a sudden sense of deja vu. I doubt it exists for me. But it is a beautiful place, this land of dreams.