the very first ride into paris is my favourite. in the early morning fragile, the only metro smells are sewer, cologne pressing against damp skin, cement. this is before you remember to anticipate the softness of chestnut blossoms, stale cigarettes, always dust and endless cafes. this is before you wake and wander rue mouffetarde cobblestones for pain and cafe creme. and monet's water-lily pond and water-lily paintings, a thunderstormy chopin piano concert in a small church. gypsy bouquets of mouguet for mayday!
we spent our last novel-reading day on a park bench in st-germain-en-laye, then we had dinner at the house where ernest hemingway lived and paul verlaine died. this, all this before packing bags, checking passports and beginning the long journey to home.
we spent our last novel-reading day on a park bench in st-germain-en-laye, then we had dinner at the house where ernest hemingway lived and paul verlaine died. this, all this before packing bags, checking passports and beginning the long journey to home.
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