It was late and it was dark, and we were sitting by my kitchen table in the old flat. My mom had arrived to Belfast earlier that day and we had just finished a meal that I made for us (the kind of novel unselfishness only seen in daughters when they haven't seen their mothers in a long time). I believe that we had tried some of my wine and then we probably cried a bit because that's the kind of people we are. The crying kind. And then we probably had some more wine. All the wine drinking and crying lead to us deciding that we wanted to go to Paris. Fortunately neither of us had money for it otherwise we would probably have booked it right there and then.
As all good ideas decided over a shared bottle of red wine it wasn't mentioned for a few days after that. Someone eventually brought it up and the sheer foolishness had us laughing and then sit in silence. And then we hypothetically thought about the cost and the sentimental value of the hypothetical trip (and it turns out that cost really has very little to say about anything once sentimental value comes around). After a lot of deliberation, pondering and flight-searching from us (the flight-searching was mainly me. I'm sorry if you're reading this mom, but you are awful at finding flights. Horrific, really) we realised that this could very well happen. One person travels from Copenhagen, one from Dublin and they meet up in Paris for three days.
Six weeks later the flights and the hotel is booked and I have a trip to Paris to look forward to.