It does not take more than five days to be on the airport again and on Friday evening, I clock out of the office and straight into the last departure to the French capital.

‘I am sitting on the bus from Beauvais to Paris and constantly need to clear the sweat off my face. The summer seems to be kicking its last breath and the night is sticky and heavy. At Port Maillot, widespread rain drenches travellers that run towards the shelter of the sultry metro station. I follow an underground pilgrimage of ticket machines, turnstiles, empty carriages, and station transfers to Vanves, right across the City of Light.’

The heavy rain trickles across the big dorm window in the morning, and during the rest of the day, it seems to have no mercy over a Paris as grey as my mood.
At the catacombs, Patrimony Day has slashed prices in half and overextended queues for miles, making me give up to the idea of entering the skeleton world, and instead, sit down and sip on coffee by the Senne.
At the Champs de Mars, I silently entertain myself with the tourists posing against the giant of steel and up the narrow valley towards Trocadero, I loudly alert a group of students of the ‘drop the ring’ scam.

The weather grows worse and with it, my mood follows suit. I start to hate Paris for no apparent reason, stomping under a constant drizzle to Pont de Bir-Hakheim for some inceptions, and down the underground lines of the metro to the hostel for some dry comfort. I meet an Australian girl at the lobby and we spend the night dining and sharing miseries of lost loves, lost opportunities and lost visas.

On Sunday, the sun shines and sets the mood for a big adventure.

Next to Gare du Nord, my Uruguayan friends have coincidentally just arrived for their first visit to the city and I am obliged to show it to them, rushing up Boulevard de Clichy for the prettiest view of Paris at Montmartre, down the sea of apartment blocks in Saint Lazare, and through numerous Parisians seen picnicking or reading while leaning over green metal benches at Parc Monceau. We raid a Carrefour and buy fruit, cheese, bread and wine, awkwardly posing against madame Eiffel under the drunkest of the afternoon suns.

Short in time as one would when intoxicated, I run through the long tunnel of Montparnasse-Bienvenue  and clinically time the interval between stations as I head to Gare du Nord: exactly one minute and fifty five seconds. I stumble across escalators of annoyed travellers and sprint to the platform where the Thalys is about to depart from, doors closing as soon as I step on the carriage Amsterdam-bound.
At three hundred kilometres an hour, Liege, Brussels and Antwerp flash within minutes of each other. France seeming to smash into Belgium and the Netherlands in a time warp of speed.

Under sponsorship of the Kenyan Tourist Board, I check in at Schiphol Airport and I am handed a red boarding pass airside. Months have passed since that night in July. The night at the Morrison that went as a blur of drunken grief, hours after my grandmother passed away and the universe tipped off the scales with an all-expenses luxury trip to Kenya.
My colleague and I roll our hand luggage across the airbridge and onto a large Boeing triple seven. In eight hours, we watch three movies, sleep, have breakfast and finally soar over the plains of  Jomo Kenyatta Airport before sunrise.

Touchdown, and we are welcomed in both English and Swahili by our private driver. At Mombasa Road, I briefly rest my head surrounded by a sea of matatus, moto taxis and trucks stuck in the morning rush.

‘To think I have been here exactly a year ago. The busy roundabouts, the scattered eucalyptus trees from which marabus shit and stare, Uhuru Park and its bone dry grass. It feels like I never left, although today I am only an spectator of the adventurer I once was.’

The private transfer replaced the night taxi, the hostel has been replaced by the luxurious Kempinski Hotel. Floors of brand new furniture exhale the smell of fresh varnish, an infinity pool dangles over the rich Westlands and my room is graciously sound-proofed  from the roaring Trans African Highway beneath us. It is the Nairobi of my very own parallel world.

Fighting the jet lag, I take my colleague to the Java Cafe and recharge with mango juice and tuna sandwiches. We follow the busy streets of the Financial District to buy sunscreen at the supermarket and only look at the souvenir shops.

We walk back to the hotel by following a Uhuru Highway now impossibly clogged under the high-altitude sunshine. Gym and have seafood at the balcony for dinner in a time in which a new Nairobi has just been written, alien yet familiar.

A pot of fresh Kenyan coffee is brought to the room as we wake up. At the main restaurant, a gigantic round table displays a rainbow of fresh fruit and a chef meticulously prepares me an omelette with cassava hints.
We leave Nairobi as soon as morning rush has dissipated and gorges crowd with slums extending North of the city. Three hours later, we arrive at Aberdare Lodge, base for an Aberdare National Park bountiful in Rift Valley views.
Antelopes and warthogs eat scraps next to our cozy bungalow as gracefully as we enjoy a lunch of tilapia before lazying around the pool for the afternoon. A distant thunderstorm is heard arriving from Samburu, though it only hits us at night, when the zebras have gone to sleep and the night in the plain has turned into a lullaby of African bird singing.

The soil boils in fleshy red and runners train marathons on the road from Aberdare to Nakuru. We cross the Equator liner evoking old memories of Uganda on the way, and finally, just before lunchtime, we are driven through the threshold of Naivasha Golf Club.

Across the glistening waters of the lake, the campsite where I once spent a cold night in a tent with an Irish girl can barely seen, though there will be no visit to Hell’s Gate this time.
We settle for a walk in the grounds and a run behind tame zebras in the afternoon, and for a game of animal shadows when the power is cut at night.

A French – African deja vu of all sorts. A redemption for Paris, and a luxurious melancholy for Kenya.