Old, young
Green vests
Colored scarves.
Bicycles, scooters
Little cars, big trucks
Dogs, children.
Friends, suitcases
Hair salons, tobacco shops
Businessmen, coffee shops.
Boulangeries, fromageries
Art galleries.
Clothes shops
People on cell phones
Couples, families…
Paris moves as such
The city lives and breathes
Waiting and welcoming with abated breath.
I have always likened Paris to a demanding, jealous woman
Of whose beauty one never tires.
Whose streets and alleyways are to be
Discovered over and over again.
I have heard no less than six languages in the past 24 hours.
Portuguese, Spanish, English, African tongues,
Arabic, Farsi, Hungarian, Romanian
And the French…
Oh the French.
Everyone’s accented shameless French.
Little snippets of “ohhhh oui” pronounced like “way” – or
“mais attende, ce n’est pas possible” or
“Putan, c’est quoi cas??!!”
Every interaction must begin with a bonjour and end in a merci.
This is of utmost importance
For Paris is polite and her
People are kind.
Paris is small but her possibilities are end-less.
The sun peaks through in rare moments.
The grey rests toujours,
Cold, hot, dry, wet –
All exists all the time.
Stinking metro stations and dusty bread.
In the morning I wake and run to the window in the bathroom,
Allowing the cold to rush in over my bare arms draped only in my nightgown.
I search through the mist, straining my eyes until they rest upon her.
That beautiful ornament in the skyline,
The Eiffel tower rests and greets me each morning like the smile of a trusted companion that has seen too many of my ups and downs to be fully comfortable with.
Like this I remember where I am
And recommence the day,
Trying to figure out
how to stay here forever.
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