My sister is in Paris enjoying some time exploring on her own.

My feet are dusty and sore, my cheeks are red, and my hairline is sweaty. I am dishevelled. I sip the water in my bottle. It’s warm.

She describes my experience of European summer well.

I think about the muscles and bones in my feet, and the trajectory of weight through them as I walk, and about how I’m probably getting sunburnt. I gaze at buildings and the river and the other people walking and shimmering in the heat.

We are so very alike my sister and I. One thing I notice every time I go to Europe is that it's a lot harder for me to get sun burn than at home.

The art makes me think and feel. Things I don’t have words for. Things I don’t have to find words for because I am alone.

One year when I lived in Sydney, I had a theatre subscription, and most times I went alone. I would walk home from the plays in the dark, thoughts and feelings rattling around in my head, changing me ever so subtly. That I went alone and walked home alone felt precious to me. Solitary in the same way as reading a novel.

The walking, the museums, the river, the dusty feet, being in Paris alone feels like this to me.

A beautiful description of being alone but enjoying it.