(no subject)
There are some things I can't let myself forget:
When I was wandering alone in Paris, I was overpowered with a sense of exhilaration from being isolated in such a city. I wandered solitary up the champs-elysees and down the rue de rivoli. I could barely breathe.
I'm pretty sure I broke my tailbone on the alps. They were hard.
One night, in Beaune, I had to flee a bar with a drunken friend who had nearly gotten us into a brawl with macho French guys. The girls held back their angry partners and yelled "allez, allez!!!" and waved us on, smiling.
He had gotten a little too friendly...
And so we got ourselves out of there FAST, and hid around a corner, where we peed on the wall like good Europeans. But (unbeknownst to us) it was someone else's wall, in someone else's garden. Someone else called the police.
We ran.
We hid in a lovely park.
We didn't have the key to get back in the apartment (after searching for an hour while still hiding from the police), but we found a magical backdoor, after trying out all the other doors on the block.
This night should not be forgotten.
Nor should the picnic in the sunny vineyards of Burgundy. As we walked away, I tried to absorb it all, but there was too much beauty for me, albeit that the brain is wider than the sky. Is the French countryside inherently beautiful, or does it do me that way because it is our culture's high standard, from classical art? (that and Italy...)
We decided it was inherent. (they painted it because it was worth painting; they were good because it was so moving.)
I thought of you, Neetha. You'd have loved it, and I insist that we go sometime together. I want to be there when you experience it. If that doesn't work out, at least think of me when you go (and you have to). See Paris, yes, but you have to swear to see Burgundy (and maybe Provence). You will one day, I'm sure.
Pictures have been taken.
May I never forget.
When I was wandering alone in Paris, I was overpowered with a sense of exhilaration from being isolated in such a city. I wandered solitary up the champs-elysees and down the rue de rivoli. I could barely breathe.
I'm pretty sure I broke my tailbone on the alps. They were hard.
One night, in Beaune, I had to flee a bar with a drunken friend who had nearly gotten us into a brawl with macho French guys. The girls held back their angry partners and yelled "allez, allez!!!" and waved us on, smiling.
He had gotten a little too friendly...
And so we got ourselves out of there FAST, and hid around a corner, where we peed on the wall like good Europeans. But (unbeknownst to us) it was someone else's wall, in someone else's garden. Someone else called the police.
We ran.
We hid in a lovely park.
We didn't have the key to get back in the apartment (after searching for an hour while still hiding from the police), but we found a magical backdoor, after trying out all the other doors on the block.
This night should not be forgotten.
Nor should the picnic in the sunny vineyards of Burgundy. As we walked away, I tried to absorb it all, but there was too much beauty for me, albeit that the brain is wider than the sky. Is the French countryside inherently beautiful, or does it do me that way because it is our culture's high standard, from classical art? (that and Italy...)
We decided it was inherent. (they painted it because it was worth painting; they were good because it was so moving.)
I thought of you, Neetha. You'd have loved it, and I insist that we go sometime together. I want to be there when you experience it. If that doesn't work out, at least think of me when you go (and you have to). See Paris, yes, but you have to swear to see Burgundy (and maybe Provence). You will one day, I'm sure.
Pictures have been taken.
May I never forget.