>rue du chat qui peche
>kilometres traversed by flip flop in one day. i stuck my feet on the metro, burned along the shores, and i paid attention to the people i passed. i guess i’m either really sexy, or les gens parisien sont des horn-dogs absolutement. i received too many, ” bonjour chérie, vous etes charmantes,” ” que vous etes jolie,” and “que vous etes mignones.” plus other words, looks, noises, smiles, and winks every few feet. sometimes i wonder if i am one of those girls doomed to be the sexy-yet-not-permanent types. will i always be desired and never kept? my roommate wendy and i stay up most of the night yapping about cunnilingus, and i wonder what i have to do to feel loved again.
the sweeping architecture of neoclassical and 1920s style absorbs the crisp air and saturates it with new fragrances. the small side streets of centuries creation with stone paths are owned by the boisterous pedestrians. the fountains with flying buttresses and springing fluids speckle every corner, and the street musicians do their job for the tourists with consummate ease, amassing plenty of coins.
yesterday i treated myself to the L’OpenTour bus routes ( how velveeta of me).
i skidded through insane Smart Car/Vespa traffic to pass over the place where joan of arc was wounded, where the guillotine beheaded Robbespierre and Marie-Antoinette, where a barge destroyed pont michel in the 1500s, where a roman temple dedicated to jupiter was replaced by a certain quasimodo home, where a man parachuted off la tour eiffel with a faulty shoot and died of fright (not impact), where the chair that moliérè became mortally ill in on stage still sits for la comédie française, where l’academie française patriarchally determines what is and isn’t french, where hitler had to walk up la tour eiffel because the lift had somehow broken (and was later fixed with a turn of a simple screwdriver), how montparnasse got its name, where le select stayed open all night for roaring flappers, where 12th century students at la sorbonne sat on hay lofts in the streets to hear professors orate on theology from 1st story windows, where the guillotine was invented as a more “humane” way of execution, where the bullet holes of 1945 attacks still penetrate some saint germain des prés buildings, where armies aligned and marched in formation, where the tomb of the unknonwn solider from WWI still burns aflame, where the obelisk stolen from egypt quelled political tensions in place de la concorde, and where the streets like rue du chat qui peche haunt my dreams.
i am not lonely as of yet, but gizmo reminded me that i don’t have to be independent like a staight line. sometimes that line can curve to embrace someone every once in a while.
the breeze flowed smoothly through my freshly washed-n-dryed hair as i sat on the patio of café la fountaine saint-michel in place saint michel, next to the actual fountain with kercheifed women, bandanaed boys, ballooned kids, and sexy cigaretted men. the sun played trickes on the tourists’ cameras as they emerged from the metro, guidebooks clutched to their breasts.
pedestrians rule the streets between la seine and st germain des prés. the colours of the cafés, the sounds of sandalled feet on cobblestone, the flicker of leaves that dance, the hum of cappuccino machines . . . vespas line up like planted roses along the road; silver, seafoam, violet. this city is trying to tell me something and i’m learning how to formulate my answer as i sit on a brown wicker chair with a mahogany round table that coffee cannot stain.
earlier today i wandered through the maze of the louvre, trying to squeeze past over-tired children and meandering 40 year olds. i grew angry watching people dispose of what was before them. they stop momentarily, haphazardly snap a hasty photo, and then run off. no one paused to let the pieces of art wash over them with sentiment-waves. we were surrounded by 5th century c.e. egyptian doors; 11th century b.c.e. sculptures from syria, iran, and lebanon of kings, godesses, journeys, and wars of epic proportions. italian, oriental, and spanish paints splashed across our retinas.
then i saw HER.
the mona lisa was surrounded and cornered like a criminal by truant camera flashes. and i hated her for her historic docile smile that dwarfed my ambitions and accomplishments. her simple painted oil-on-canvas eyes. her own mythology before my ready-nails.
the sun now shines through the overhead trees. my waiter is a jovial french man with curly hair. he kisses my cheek when i sit down.