Monday, November 30, 2009
4 Flights Up...
... to a dark blue varnished door. Three locks, two turn clockwise, one counter-clockwise. A tough go if you're winded, exhausted, and a tad inebriated from the down-the-corner cafe's late night carafe of wine. The city click-clacks on to the tune of high-heeled girls stomping with force on the cobble-stoned streets leading up the slight incline to the rows of old apartments. No one seems to sleep at the same time; someone is always up and about, needing to discuss their latest plight, an overblown amd imagined slight to their egos. Thin is all around; eternal movement shakes off any fat pleading to cling to their bodies. The Metro hums and drums underneath the street, kicking up speed at 5:30 in the a.m. and winding its way out and through and back in to the city until it stops to rest at 12:30 in the a.m., smoking its carefully trimmed Gauloises as the mechanics check for leaks and squeaks.Labels: Late Evenings, Paris
