The Last Chapter of Betrayed Not Beaten (still editing)...

I’m in Paris sitting at the coffee shop of a popular market place in the 3rd district, L’Estaminet, staring out the open window with the cool afternoon breeze occasionally combing the fine hairs on my arms, hinting the end of Summer. Across from my view on a neighboring rooftop, are two pigeons playing hide seek beside a pale smoke-stained chimney, and behind it is the majestic view of an old classic cream-colored apartment building, with black wrought iron framed balconies sequenced across from one end to the other. All the window frames are painted pearl white with a glossy finish that danced with the reflection of the afternoon sun, and the glass on the windows and balcony doors were shining like polished mirrors that reflected the occasional flock of birds flying past like tourists. The blue-grey tiled roof tops complementing the pastels in father sky that was sitting calmly above, looking down on us with pleasure. There is a sky scraper drawing a large white cross like a magic wand with fairy dust, as if GOD has spoken the sounds of Victory. Paris is more than beauty, it’s a culture of Liberty and freedom of opportunity, a place that turns amatures into entrepreneurs for those who dare to dream but has no place for those who allow themselves to become nothing. Two Hundred and Eighty-One Million Visitors a year (dubbed the most visited country on earth), cannot manage to satisfy their fetish of French History, who arrive loaded with a budget for more souvenirs than they can carry and armed with long lensed cameras to ensure they take home the finest of all details. The people of all this brilliance, well, they are now the Champions of the world, a victory long deserved that chanted fair justice after five years of bad-luck and bullets. My love affair for the French started in childhood with a lady who lived across the road from my Nanna Annie’s house, who was traditionally French and always used to color her lips with tones that resembled raw beauty and red wine. It didn’t take long before her memory recorded in my heart a love song, during the most crucial developmental years, intertwining blue, white and red strands of passion and pride, woven like wildfire growing stronger with the winds of change; as if I would one day become part of their history. This is a dream that’s been waiting to wake up like a seed beneath the snow that with the sun’s love becomes the rose; and it feels like home!

YOU DON’T BELONG TO THE CITY YOU’RE BORN IN, YOU BELONG TO THE ONE YOU LOVE.

… it forms part of the last chapter of my book, soon to be published, titled “BETRAYED NOT BEATEN”

Based on a true story, and actual events - autobiography

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