If I lived in Paris, I would never close the windows. The traffic noise below my apartment would become the soundtrack of my early mornings, my lazy afternoons, and my midnight snacks. My apartment would be old with generations of white paint, brass knobs, and creaky floors. During winter or rain, I’d make tea in…
Next week is Thanksgiving. I could write about the disgusting commercialism that is trying to rob me of my Thanksgiving season while thrusting me into bad pop Christmas carols, but that’s so several blog posts ago. Instead, it hailed. I walked Jack through his wash this morning. Smokey sky and cover-my-hands chilly. I almost didn’t go,…
I never feel more like a rat in a maze than I do in a Metro or subway system. Don’t get me wrong, there’s an energy. So many different kinds of people moving en mass, all with different agendas, it’s electric, but the the underground shuffle is a soulless place. There’s very little eye contact,…
Hemingway called Paris a “movable feast.” I’m not really a Hemingway fan, but when he says, “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris … then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast,” I have to agree. There is something about…
I couldn’t live in Paris. Apart from the fact that I don’t speak French, I just wouldn’t be able to live my day to day there. It’s too much for daily life. My senses would be lavished all the time. The food, the views, the art, the beautiful people, the monuments. My God, even a…