Déjeuner
I felt at home. Walking down the Champs-Elysées, bright lights cut the darkness. Tired tourists walked in groups and pretended to enjoy themselves while they dreamed of soft hotel pillows waiting for them. Me, I strolled along and took a drag of my cigarette. My dress blew around my knees and I smiled to the night air. The city sounds no longer felt imposing. Honking cars, rapid French chatter, the occasional stranger’s Bonsoir – they comforted me.
In an out, the smoke blew. On and on, my feet continued. Without thinking, I crossed the street and headed towards the river. This was not my neighborhood, but I knew where I was. I wandered and quietly descended the road. The lights became brighter and I found a bridge. The summer air was still new and I reveled in its sweet caress across my neck. After unending April rain, it felt like the hands of a handsome lover coursing through my hair.
I had no iPod – everything had been stolen. But that’s the thing about Paris – it needed no soundtrack. The lamplights reflected in the seine, the smartly dressed cyclists headed home – they were music enough. And I listened. I walked across the river and raised my arms, letting my skirt blow around me in happy billows. I was home.
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Alfonsina y el mar, Rodolphe Raffalli
If you ever go to Paris, be a gypsy.
Rene Gruau
Django Reinhardt et Co. - Gypsy Jazz
Promenade à Velo à Paris : Sois Partie Du Désordre
