May 7th, 2006
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Rainy Days and Mondays
Yesterday was not a very good day for pictures, which is to say I got almost none taken. It has grown overcast, and the clouds didn’t melt away by early afternoon like they did during the week. The rain kept me sleepy, and a bottle of Bordeaux didn’t make going out any more appealing. But, I had nice French food for dinner, and I got some CDs at Marche aux Puces, along with another little turtle for my mother. Today is cold and grey at nine o’clock, and I’m a little concerned the weather may not improve for the rest of my stay. While the boring colors can be partly circumvented by shooting in black and white, it still means no shadows, making it much harder to take interesting pictures. I’ll have to hope for exceptional subjects and extra strong composition on my part.
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I’m going to cull the mundanity of my experiences’ ruffled edges and speak briefly of things done and felt. Pairs smells of chemicals, perfume and cologne, the air clogs the nostrils with filtering stuff, the people are many, with races in accord (on the surface at least): Jews and Tunisians, Chinese and ancestral French. The people are harried and hurried, in some ways more than the Japanese. Subway doors open before the trains stop, some while lurching, some slowing smooth as silk. Tunnels between platforms snake and snarl, insulation and concrete rot from the ceiling and only the same two dozen advertisement posters are plastered everywhere. Pierre Perret of fifty years. Sony Ericsson has Christina Aguilera on phones, and snarling men with bad teeth crush soccer balls while shredding nets. Museums abound and so do tourists, people love sausages. The gardens with sittable grass are rare and police whistle and shout to drive the youth from Luxembourg at a perfectly sunny eight forty-five. Rare toilets cost money and small children zip by on rollerblades or carrying dingy stuffed animals. People smile and stare, always saying good day and good bye. Expect no tip but no service from blue collar boys dropping off cups of exquisite coffee. Everyone has an opinion and many express it with loud voices and waving hands.
Running around, this is a crazy, crazy, trip where I’m doing exactly as I said I would: nothing but being and seeing.
Stories and centuries of dead and for freedom of backpackers and no English speaking. I’m sorry, it’s my fault. As I said you catch more flies with honey, but me oh cheese, wondrous mountains of cheese and a good two bottles of wine me oh my, if only Monoprix was open on Sundays.
