There’s a particular kind of trouble that starts with a good weekend. You come home, you unpack your bag, and instead of feeling satisfied, you feel unsatisfied — in the best possible way. That’s exactly the hole I’ve dug myself into after a rather packed few days in London. It was so good that I’m now doing the thing where I open a blank calendar and start squinting suspiciously at October and November, both of which look suspiciously empty. Empty calendars are dangerous. Empty calendars are basically an invitation.

🐞 The London Case

London has the obvious pull: the West End never seems to run out of things to dangle in front of me. I could go for something new, sure, but honestly there’s a strong argument for comfort food — the theatrical equivalent of a good stew. The Lion King. Mamma Mia. Shows I’ve probably seen before in some form, shows that don’t ask much of me except to sit there and have a wonderful time, which, at this stage in life, feels like plenty.

Then there’s the sightseeing itch. I still haven’t done the London Eye, which is a strange gap for someone who has otherwise been fairly thorough about ticking off London’s landmarks. The hesitation isn’t logistics — it’s vertigo, an affliction that has crept up on me with age in a way I find almost insulting. Insulting because I used to be a French Chasseur Alpin. Mountain infantry. The people who are, by trade and by beret, supposed to be fine with heights. And yet here I am, doing mental arithmetic about how many metres separate “pleasant afternoon” from “gripping the safety rail like it owes me money.”

For reference: I managed the Singapore Flyer, which tops out at a genuinely serious 165 metres, without incident. The London Eye caps out at 135 metres. So by my extremely scientific and totally-not-just-hopeful logic, if 165 was survivable, 135 should be a breeze. I’m choosing to believe this. Ask me again once I’m actually in the pod.

🐞 Paris Case

And then, quietly, persistently, there’s Paris. My old home turf, tugging at my sleeve the way hometowns do. It’s got shows of its own, restaurants I actually trust rather than restaurants I’m hoping are good, and — this is the part that’s really doing damage to my willpower — Atelier des Lumières. After how much I enjoyed Frameless in London, I can’t in good conscience not go check out what sounds like its Parisian cousin. It would be almost rude not to compare notes.

The other inconvenient fact: I haven’t set foot in Paris at all this year. Which, for someone who calls it home, is starting to feel less like a scheduling gap and more like a mild betrayal.

🐞 Actual Problem

So here’s where I’ve landed: two cities, two sets of shows, one immersive light experience I’m now emotionally invested in seeing twice in two countries, and one increasingly fragile set of vertigo-adjacent excuses. The honest answer, the one I keep circling back to, is that I probably don’t have to choose at all. If the budget cooperates, why not both? London for the nostalgia and the Eye (fingers crossed, knees steady), Paris for the home-cooking and the Atelier.

Being indecisive has never once stopped me from just doing the thing twice. Why start now.

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