Only a faded scar is left over my lip, clearing my way for a much awaited trip to the French capital in a month mostly remembered by the constant roster changes.
As an Airbus A340-600 observer, I operate this flight along with two of my batch mates in a frenzy of colorful trays, Indian passengers and French passports. Despite the morning departure being relatively quiet, I notice we only rest for about thirty minutes in the whole flight.

Not a cloud in the sky. The concrete pillars of the once-modern Terminal 1 at Charles de Gaulle contrast against the blue sky like an extraterrestrial aircraft awaiting for take off.
Not a minute to waste. Our hotel room keys are given and five minutes later, my colleagues and I meet at the hotel reception and take the RER into Paris. Lacking air conditioning, the hot air in the carriage grows heavy and musty whilst the smells of body odours, expired deodorant and burned rubber mix in what I would later call ‘the Paris scent’.
The RER stops at Notre Dame and just outside the metallic escalator, my first glance of Paris is finally seen and imprinted in my mind:

Venetian windows embedded in buildings worked in delicate Neoclassic lines and painted in pastels. The Seine flows slowly, like a vein of green murky water feeding the humid air against the marble and yellow stone shores.
Notre Dame looks sturdy, chunky. Yet, the multicoloured vitrals in the main nave deconstruct the voluminous structure and open an eye into the history of the city, as colourful as the hundreds of glass pieces composing it.

At the Louvre, the diary reads:

      ‘We didn’t have much time , so after taking some pictures we started our long walk towards La Concorde. The Louvre looked beautiful but really overcrowded, so I decided that I would actually go inside on my next Paris trip, the weather was just way too beautiful to waste it by seeing paintings and queuing.’

Iconic is the word defining the walk from La Concorde to the Arc do Triomphe. The address reads ‘Avenue des Champs Elysees’, the cobblestone street resound at the vibration of fast cars and high heeled tourists.
The Arc do Triomphe is larger than I thought. Embedded in a roundabout which is now a symbol of pure French pride (no wonder is called the ‘Etoile’, the star), the place sits in a privileged point in the city, whilst every street emanating from its core shows a different perspective of this magic place: South to Trocadero, East to La Concorde, North to Ternes and West to La Defense.

We walk South whilst the streets around us dot with embassies and cafes. At the end of it, another roundabout opens the thoroughfare to the marble floors of Trocadero and in front of me, it stands tall. Once called ugly, once despised by the Parisians, the mirage of the Eiffel Tower.
But why is this structure so special? Definitely not the highest tower in the world. Definitely not the most sleek structure either. The beauty of this architectural masterpiece perhaps relies on its lines, the steel frame bend in a delicate arch, as elegant as a Parisian woman wearing her best attire for a night out at the Champs de Mars.

I sit down and stare. Another dream come true, another milestone in life. Bistro for coffee is next, followed by a train journey to the hotel for some rest.

My colleagues sleep and the next morning, through the underground world of Gare du Nord, I victoriously emerge in Sacre Coeur.
Now made famous by the movie ‘Amelie’, this is the place in which the main character runs along a series of steps as she tries to find her unknown date. Today though, I climb up the hill to fall in love with the city that has now become my date for the day.

The backstreets run downhill towards Clichy, where the red paint of the Moulin Rouge slowly fades against a wet steel billboard. The clock is still talking of an early morning and my gut is exclaiming Versailles.
Left behind are the tall buildings of the arrondisements, the train soaring over neighborhoods of pure French suburbia, of small houses and green patchy gardens.

At Versailles, I chance my luck at the golden gate that separates the Royals from the commoners and I gain access before the ‘hour of no return’.
Built by Louis XVI, the palace or ‘chateau’ worked as the seat of the political power from 1682 to 1789, shortly three months before the French Revolution returned the capital to Paris.
With little time to spend before returning to the city, I walk through the many chambers within the palace, featuring reflections of a tourist at the Chamber of Mirrors, or memories of a warm night at the The King’s bedroom, or the cold face of the winter at Maria Antoinette’s. The gardens outside breathe pure air amongst the manicured bushes, and the lagoons reflect the sky in tones of pale terracotta.

Exhausted, I take two RER trains to the hotel and rest in my bedroom, moments before my wake up call and the short drive directly to the aircraft door. The night falls and the aircraft lifts off from Roissy. The night is long and the passenger load is light. A rich Qatari passenger invades my galley, whilst his sleazy eyes stare at my every move and trigger an awkward invite to spend intimate days in Paris. I turn around and proceed with my crew tasks, mentally trying to eliminate the thought out of my head.

We land in Doha in the morning with enough time to unpack, ride my bike in the forty three-degrees Celsius heat and source some food in Ramadan, lunch and pack again. Airport bound again, it is time for Rome.

The moods are high and everyone amongst the crew is in good spirits. Rome is a flight everyone had bid for, so high expectations make up for a smooth and quick flight across the Mediterranean, approaching over the Fiumicino coast shortly before sunrise.
Once again, no time for pleasantries. I shower and change, meeting two crew members at the lobby within twenty minutes of our arrival.

First stop: Colosseo. Goosebumps when stepping out of the metro station. Speechless, for one of the most remarkable architectural wonders of the world lays right in front of me. Solid against time, against nature, against historic landmarks. A place with a rather strange and overwhelming energy, the ghosts of previous lives here ended perhaps still lingering through the empty corridors, the echoes of past cheering crowds, the sweat of Gladiators now forever embedded in the hot sand.

The Foro Romano links the Colosseo to Piazza Venezia through a series of stone pillars and terraces, the Fontana di Trevi links the tradition to the superstition through cold water and coins. At Piazza di Spagna, the steps rise up the hectic streets of the city centre whilst a pizza overflowing with tomato sauce is enjoyed at midday. We take the modern blue metro line and emerge in the monumentally open Piazza San Pietro, in the afternoon toasting under the summer sunshine.
The Pope is off duty today, making the Cathedral look hollow from the inside. An elevator takes me up a small room where a tiny set of stairs grow narrower with every step. From the top of the Coppola, the meandering of the Tiber enchants and disappear in the horizon of historic buildings and churches. This is Rome.

At sunset, we return to the hotel and I collapse in bed for a hard earned fourteen-hour rest. The next morning, the diary reads:

      ‘Nobody would want to go out with me the next day as they were really tired of walking and climbing steps , so I took the subway and went by myself to the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel. I’m not a really big fan of museums , but I really wanted to see the Michelangelo.
Little I knew that in order to see it, you have to go through the whole Vatican Museum. Endless corridors of rich art collection who follow to rooms and rooms and rooms of paintings and sculptures. Photo click here-click there, paintings here-paintings there, time to stand next to the tour guide from some random group to hear a brief explanation and finally, the Sistine Chapel, the Michelangelo!’

My layover in Rome ends at the hotel poolside, which in the late afternoon is packed with topless guests lounging against white towels and smoking on slim cigarettes. I fall asleep under the Italian sun and wake up to check my newly published roster.

At night, we fly eastwards amongst light winds and sleepy passengers, the smell of strawberry pancakes breaking the fast of everyone in the plane at sunrise and why not, breaking the fast pace of a short week in Europe.