I am a wanderer. Yes, I slump into the same red chair each morning at 8, my head a day ahead and my liver twitching from last night. But every twelve years or so, those bits feel a need. A manic itch.  Even if everything at home fulfils me physically, mentally and all else-ally.    Paris is a love, and I think it loved me. But the city of love it may be, Paris takes its time to love anyone outside its progeny, especially when they’re two metres long, actually say yes, drink New York martinis, work beyond 7 and…