I dined solo last night and uncharacteristically I was happy about it. My regular dinner companion for this work-trip decided at the last minute to join our other colleagues for a drink, which to be honest was what I may have subconsciously been hoping for. I was increasingly pissed off at a lot of things going on at work, I was more than eager to leave earlier than the rest so as to get my inner zen back. While I’m happy to be in Paris, it was getting on my nerves how inefficiently some things were handled, it just boggled my mind. Once back at the hotel and after a slight breather, I looked at neighborhood options for my last meal of the day and somehow found a decent, typically Japanese restaurant not too far off. To my welcome surprise, I was able to walk in sans reservation, grab a seat by the sushi bar where I had the luxury of having it all for myself, and sat in relative privacy. The fact that all the staff and most of the guests were Japanese could not have been a better sign that I stumbled on the right choice. Once my sushi assortment arrived, it was beautiful much like a work of art I didn’t want to disturb it at all. It was so good to be almost revelatory. As I cleared off my plate, it dawned on me that I was lucky to be there, satisfied at my discovery, proud even for doing it on my own. It was the best meal of this trip thus far.