June 29th 2018
The heat of Paris, the lightness of crossing a narrow-cobbled
road sandwiched between two souvenir shops, where small, multicolored Eiffel
towers hung in clusters and chimed in the warm breeze. A Parisienne girl cycles,
long tanned legs, short brown hair, floaty red skirt, her lace bralette showing
underneath her sheer white blouse, like a water color made by a French street artist.
Cities are people, each with a unique personality, each has
something the other lacks. Paris is the quaint boulangerie, the baguettes, the
ridiculously large green and pink meringues. Green meringues! The glittering Seine, the sweet-talking men, the gypsy
beggar who sits near the market, a few coins inside an empty McDonald’s paper
cup, her pet rabbit nibbling on a carrot.
The simple and wonderful pleasure of looking out my hotel
window every morning and seeing, the little grocery down the street; ‘Bonjour,
je peux acheter une peche s’il vous plait?’ and always the lovely ‘bien
sur’ in response. Then the divine pleasure of tucking my teeth into the
sweet, full, pink-orange flesh, the burst of flavor, the juice, the joy, in utter
satisfaction, I nod; no this can’t be a mere peach, it’s definitely a peche.
Language, words, things take different meaning, tastes, and feeling.
