Paris, the morning of

Alive, it was alive and beckoning. Brian and I exited the front door of our hostel to receive a rush of peace to the face.  Wonderful scents came from every direction and it seemed as if our noses did the walking while our feet toyed with the uneven cobblestones.  Ambling through the avenue, the life of the neighborhood, and main artery for passing Renaults, buses and mopeds, you looked up, and to the right and left.  Direction, negligent, as our bodies, newly energized, gained momentum, strides deepening and lengthening with each boulangerie and patisserie we passed.  The idea of bread, fresh bread available every couple of minutes breached our narrow minded view of the neighborhood, drowning any notion of the merit of suburbs and other non-Parisian inventions.

Paris was a life and it was a death. Fruits and vegetables burgeoning from store fronts with cute, old men donning striped aprons picking out your fruit with such care, choosing one with good genes and able spirit.  Each fresh apple picked was medicine for the day, no need for pills, just have a juicy bite and be on your way with a brisk walk through crowds of school children and men unloading trucks and women in suits and dresses walking to work.  And walking was what you did.  You walked, we walked.  The fromagerie we passed by on the left, and so we returned and I entered a room with a scent so decadent I once looked behind to see if I was followed and pointing to a half-wheel of camembert I saw almost a child’s hand as it aims to grasp a long-forsaken part of itself which it sees in another.  And the short, smiley attendant gave me that self and wrapped it in crisp paper.


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