Parisian Sidewalk

It’s possible hell is being a dog walked by someone wearing ear buds. Paris today offers a succession of such tortured pooches I’d love to pet, all proudly Parisian. Or maybe it’s the fresh baguette in every breeze that has their noses in the air? A young woman walks by, gently jostling her baby, who screams anyway. The schoolboy coming the other way is too young to know that people will judge him if he talks to himself, the grand-mere on the far side of the street is too old to care.

I’m in between, so I tap the note into my phone.
I’m in between, one tour over and the last of this long marvelous year soon to begin.
I’m in between, lunch behind, dinner around the corner, and a beer in this Parisian cafe is just right. If I try to wave away the gnat, it will go in for sure.

A fallen leaf blows ahead of a man in perfect time with his steps and we both watch it. He seems mildly confused to find himself in a fundamental ballet. He looks up into our eye contact but doesn’t smile back. That’s okay. His scarf is very nice. I realize I’m cold. Autumn is here, hiding imperfectly. The calendar says October, which means “I tried to warn you.”

Two older women with an abundance of stories sit behind me. One’s hair is chemical orange, the John Lennon glasses of the other are tinted violet. The first looks too much like a witch to not love immediately. The second looks too much like an artist to actually be one. Or I’m completely wrong, again. On the other side of the street a young Freddie Mercury pauses in front of a mirror to ruffle his hair just right. His mustache is impervious. But I don’t think he’s gay, just hip. Or I’m completely wrong, again. I love the Marais, I know that much, again.

I was wrong about getting Romania day-by-day blogs done during tour season. That country deserves better than I’m giving it. But every tour devours days like Notre Dame soaked up prayers. (It will again, have no fear.)

Yesterday, trapped in proximity to blasting modern music with no melody, no lyrics, no sense of the human experience, it seemed to say that quality doesn’t matter, only marketability. I am sorry Romania, I don’t know how to market you. Everyone claims to hate the crowds, loves culture, loves Europe and travel, swears they want to get off the Beaten Path and don’t like doing Touristy Things, but so few will actually show it. And I know it’s partially my fault for not better illuminating your path.

The baby is still screaming as the woman doubles back, and her endurance makes mountains seem hasty. A woman cycles past with a dish-rack upside down on her basket to cage her terrier. The pup plans its escape. Going the other way, another bicycle, another passenger, a little girl is telling a long story. Her father can’t hear her, but that’s okay, what matters is the telling. Two other kids are not quite sure why they’re in almost-trouble, too young to understand the abstraction of traffic when the street is so calm right this perpetual second.

A woman walks past who reminds me of someone, but I can’t think of who, and it seems outrageous that she doesn’t know the answer. The gnat went in my beer. I’ll try not to drink it. Wow that guy is tall. Except now I hear his Dutch and it’s no longer noteworthy. The name of my new home in Rotterdam comes to mind and I feel a warm smile start at the top of my head and shimmy on down to my toes. Strangers not together, sharing only a street corner, take photos in different directions and I wonder if they should be friends. More than the way we should all be friends, that is. A heavily pregnant woman is returning home with her mother, four hands full of bags, and I hope they found everything they need.

Customer Service distilled is that taxi, driven by a bearded viking of a man, with a baby seat up front. For the little boy across the street, getting his Spiderman glove on is the most important thing since his next birthday. The guy on his Vespa stops prudently far back from the garbage truck as it stops to make a pickup.

The woman with the screaming child is back, except there is no more screaming. Now bright eyes gaze at her, it reaches out a tiny hand to grab her nose with five tiny fingers, and giggles scatter across the sidewalk. All of us lucky enough to be on the street when she smiles will live an extra two years just for having seen it.

I forgot to keep an eye on it, but the gnat in my beer is still there though the beer is gone, and that’s enough achievement for one day.