where i talk about living in Paris, street philosophy and the perfect way to skin a dog. just kidding, i've never done that.
I was talking to my French landlady
about how gorgeous
Paris is in the sunshine,
and you know what she said?
"Mm, yes, but Paris in the rain, it is such a love story too, non?"
What a classic, and classy, response.
about how gorgeous
Paris is in the sunshine,
and you know what she said?
"Mm, yes, but Paris in the rain, it is such a love story too, non?"
What a classic, and classy, response.
Some might see being stuck inside a bar while it's snowing too hard to leave as a problem. I always say, when life gives you lemons have the bartender whip up a vodka sake martini with a pickled ginger twist. #fridaynightinparis #toastyontheinside
The street at the end of mine is rue de la Roquette. A few blocks east it ends at the
doorstep of Père Lachaise cemetery, with its stone city of inarticulate bones under trees
that in summer canopy the sky in green. To the west la rue runs straight into the setting sun.
If I leave the apartment at the right time I walk into blinding light, squinting at the merchants and
their cheeses, fruits and roasted meats while weaving around the backlit silhouettes of pedestrians.
Like many streets in Paris, rue de la Roquette shatters where it collides with "une place" (in this case
Bastille) and forks into a nest of diagonal roads. But I know that the essential nature of "la rue" is to continue
westward, cutting through the city, crossing the soft, rolling hills of northern France and plunging into the
cold Atlantic on its hunt for the western edge of the earth. One day when the light catches the right moment
I will follow it. Maybe its true destination, or even its origin if all roads do bend around the globe, is
where the sun sleeps under the stalactites of the world.
doorstep of Père Lachaise cemetery, with its stone city of inarticulate bones under trees
that in summer canopy the sky in green. To the west la rue runs straight into the setting sun.
If I leave the apartment at the right time I walk into blinding light, squinting at the merchants and
their cheeses, fruits and roasted meats while weaving around the backlit silhouettes of pedestrians.
Like many streets in Paris, rue de la Roquette shatters where it collides with "une place" (in this case
Bastille) and forks into a nest of diagonal roads. But I know that the essential nature of "la rue" is to continue
westward, cutting through the city, crossing the soft, rolling hills of northern France and plunging into the
cold Atlantic on its hunt for the western edge of the earth. One day when the light catches the right moment
I will follow it. Maybe its true destination, or even its origin if all roads do bend around the globe, is
where the sun sleeps under the stalactites of the world.