There is Time
There is no time to write in Paris. There are wrought-iron balconies, enormous pigeons, and lots and lots of dust, but there is no time to write. There is time to do other things, though. There is time to walk across lush green lawns, speckled with magenta peonies and set off on all sides by enormous palms; there is time to rush through corridors, in museums and mausoleums and metro stations; there is time to take pictures in front of beautiful things, like all the other tourists do. There is time, but not enough. There is sunshine and cerulean sky bouncing off ancient limestone, and there is rain drizzling through halogen lights. There are crêpes, light and crispy and soft, on every corner. There are a lot of people in Paris, but not too many. Not if you know where to go, and when. The Marais is best in the morning, before ten o’clock, when the shops are still closed but the Musée Picasso is just opening, and you can head to the top floor and hoard all the colors and misshapen proportions to yourself. There are Parisians in Paris, and if you’re especially lucky, they will mistake you for one of their own. They will draw you on the
These Fish Bite •
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