Talking To The Night

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I walk the streets of Paris as if I’m practicing lines of a new Woody Allen play. In Paris, I can just walk through the streets – into the streets – and talk about ideas or prose (into the air, whether its in French or English or ??) and its all okay. No one ever looks at me for further explanation.

I can just talk into the night and have adhoc creative outbursts; people are obviously used to it. Paris brings it out of people. My creative energy seems to be flowing one way at least for now –into the night. Thank God for the “night.”

There is so much of all the right things here – language, art, love, wine, chocolate, great coffee, bread, crepe and chestnut stands, fashion – it is prolific, on every corner, in every shop, cafe, restaurant, train, bus, bistro, museum……..

I’m staying in a flat that directly faces the Eiffel Tower, so I can’t make a cup of tea or cappuccino without being reminded of a major source of the city’s energy source – day or night. I walk into the kitchen or onto the porch, and the site of the “Tower” takes over.

While not really all that beautiful by itself, just as New York’s Lady doesn’t draw me in on every trip, there is something so magnificent about its presence, that after awhile, I want to cry. L’Arc De Triumph can also provoke such a response after you look at it long enough. Alas, my final energy burst for the night starts to quiet down as I finish a glass of Vieux Chateau Palon with a small box of Cerises Griottes. More, she says. More. More. A necessary part of anyone’s language when they spend time here.

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