En Route. 

.Besides visual storytelling, I love to write. My father writes science fiction. My uncle was the biggest author on WW2 aviation. My sister writes screenplays. Most of my words were scribbled on the backs of notebooks, beer mats, scraps of paper I would find weeks later in some random pocket. I felt at a loss. Why it wasn't happening. Only recently, looking through an abundance of collected scraps that I realise this is me, my life. With the world at my feet, and invitations to cross it, I have decided to begin writing these travel shorts properly, to remember them forever.



1. Paris.

Jake illuminated wonder and immaturity with little restraint, as most young men do at the age of twenty-seven. He uncorked the bottle of champagne, allowing her to drink first, watching the moonlight play on her skin as she swallowed, that soft pink young skin, goose-bumped and fragrant. Jake had met her hours before. He was in Montmatre. Had recently arrived on the Euro from Kings Cross London. A last minute trip, planned poorly, as most of his plans usually were. He had packed fast and headed to the station hoping to board a train to the north, but dazzled by the sign to Paris, he enquired the cost of a ticket. £120. Two hours later he found himself smoking a cigarette in the Gare De Nord. With no reservations he headed north by foot. It was April. Early spring showers had cleansed the air and Jake enjoyed the climb. Eventually he discovered a cherry coloured doorway. It read GDlGGD on a gold plaque by the entrance. He rang the bell. Locks unlatched and it creaked open to reveal an elderly woman. Her name was Dee, and she was grand, draped in silk, pearls, and clutching a gin straight. Dee welcomed him in to a home adorned with glamour, memories, framed pictures of a younger self, draped in silk and pearls throughout the years. She had lived here through the Nazi's, manning her mothers hotel. Now the hotel was hers, and the four story town house was Paris in its knackered wallpaper, creaking stairwell, perfumed air, velure. Dee was Paris. Dee-Dee as she was known, showed Jake to his room. It was a simple four walls, a bed, a sink, rug, and a view east across the rooftops. She poured him a gin and they sat together on the bed. There were some simple rules under her roof; no guests after nine, no smoking indoors, and Jake was welcome to eat with Dee and her husband in the garden at six if he so desired. Moments later he was freshened up and heading in a westward direction, finding comfort in small bars