"One Day, We'll go to Paris" (a very extravagant, exaggerated and foolish personal interpretation of Paris)

ONE DAY, WE’LL GO TO PARIS

Here, time passes to the tick tick tick of the Musee d’Orsay‘s golden clock.
There are all sorts of tales, none as tall as me, serving as entertaining filler between ticks. At first unfamiliar and shy of the city, I followed the tourists to a romantic Wilde encounter in the cemetery. A tomb kiss, even with colorless lip balm, must do for traditon’s sake. The Irishman is forever deadly attractive.

Having said my final adieus to Oscar, I felt in the mood for an area as thriving, flamboyant, and theatrical as the man himself. I could have gone to the Moulin Rouge, but Jewish allure swept me to the Marais. We dined on falafels, bagels, fragrant carrot juice and heavy nut cakes. I considered hibernation in the bed of autumn leaves under a bench in the Place des Vosges, but the kosher cobblestone streets then wound me to the “Coiffeur’s.” The only cutting in this place that I heard was rather tears of torn clothes and rejoices and grief of clad young bourgeoisie who succeeded in snatching up rare editions of fashion comebacks. Suspender snaps and Grandma’s old scent reminded me of the lovely. I visited her. Let’s call it a bitter stressful English night of relaxing chamomile tea.

Move it up a class/arrondisement to where Louis and I roll our suitcases over new material – pink fur Marc Jacobs – j’adore ça, moi.
Give me chocolate when I’m tried or tired. Either way, I can’t decide if I have the right to consume the chocolate lingerie display. Fat Austrian boys in the chocolate factory, chocolate buldges out of cheeks until it overfills our pockets; we snicker chewing snickers in profiting. What other pleasure might this city reveal to me? Cute monsters and sloppy green sunrises at the Grand Palais art exposition….

You can’t leave this city without purchasing from the best quality Parisian grocery store (Indian chicken and rice with golden raisins)…then eat it on the paved sidewalk, your meal still as hot as the ground where the homeless man once laid. Who needs to return home to a lofty Parisian apartment when you can people-watch like it’s nobody’s business (or rather, make it your own)? I should write to Frommer’s for the price-less moments like these with friends. It’s worth more than a can of foie gras at La Grande Epicerie.

I’ve seen you during the day, ma belle femme. What do you dream of at night? It’s nonsensically amusing how we change who we are once the Eiffel light’s up (blue, at present). Merde Alors! Where are we? I don’t know, but I wanna stay here…. Off the champs-elysée, a little club where a little white lie translates into French for invités. Fact - It’s our last night in Paris as we’ve got a plane back home to N.Y when we wake and remember our whereabouts. “C’mon in, we’ll see what we can do!” Come dance and fly your airplane around the room! The snaking basslines, the wah-wah guitar, they let us know that we’re flying high on newly discovered gold. The frontman moves to his precious whiskey, declaring that it’s a show for his friends and the whiskey is as free and pure as water. They toured with Jet and we have an understanding based on their lyrics (foreign but pretty to the rest), so, off the champs for a couple hours tonight, remember where you came from.


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