Paris Greatest Hits

I'm gettin' a little nostalgic these days. Maybe writing memories of the past ten-odd years of your life will do that to you. I don't know. I'm holing up (yet again) in BC to write like mad, so I may not be able to post for the next couple of days. In the meantime, I give you The City of Lights' Greatest Hits:

The Metro's Art Nouveau stylings. You know you are in a good place when the public transit gives you goosebumps.

Dramatic headless cemetery statues. Perhaps not a Hit in and of themselves, but somewhere around this decapitated angel are the bodies of Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf and Jim Freaking Morrison.

I have a thing for headless dudes, I guess. These ones did something to me. In a good way. The Musee du Cluny was spiritual.

Hey, remember that time when I got up at 7:30, crammed my beret on my head and ran down to the Barbes Market so I could be there when they opened? The place where they're only flirting with you because they want you to buy their tomatoes? Remember that? And then remember after, when that really cute guy in my building flirted with me (not because he wanted me to buy his tomatoes) but I couldn't understand a word he was saying, so I just stared at him stupidly?

Oh sure, there were a couple days like this. But despite the marketing, Paris in the Springtime is pretty much rainy and cold. The best way to get through it is get your daily dose of flowers and churches. Does a body good.

"My" cafe, La Fourmi. The manager was surly, the coffee borderline, the toilets shocking, and the ambience perfect for writing. Ask us about our transvestite panhandlers!

Not showing this would be like seeing a Don McLean concert and him not singing American Pie. He may not feel like it. Might feel like singing it is some big cliche and he's really moved on, you know? He's past it. But, really, it just wouldn't be right not to.

Jardin des Tuileries. Where statues look like angels. And where gypsy women hold photographs of sad-looking children and ask you for money.

The view from my window. What I saw when I arrived, exhausted and completely freaked out. What I saw when I wrote. What I saw when, rather than write another word, I wanted to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon. What I saw while drinking 900 giant cups of tea every morning. What I saw when I fell in love with my characters. What I saw when I killed them. What I saw when I placed a pile of white pages on the table, took a breath and left for home.