Time travel, awesome short stories, people bonking in the room upstairs

A couple of times I thought I saw her. A skinny thing with cropped hair, rushing somewhere, her dreams in light clouds behind her.

Or her nose in a book in Shakespeare & Co, poring over every word.

Or strutting about, trying to look as though she owned the place.
 
Ahh, I remember Paris. We all remember Paris. For Paris represents the dreams we all had as young glistening things. Dreams of writing or dancing, of travelling, of lovers. These dreams were the stuff we had in our heads before we had kids and bills, husbands, dogs to vaccinate, homework to supervise, gardens to weed.

My old personal library

Are our kids as hopelessly dreamy as we were? I'm not sure they are. They are hardier, they read less books. And the way they wander into other worlds - it is not through words and books but through the vast and savvy internet, a concept that might have seemed like time travel to those of us who grew up pushing coins into public telephones and making party music mixes on cassettes.


Do you remember cassettes? Yes, cassettes. How about getting the tape caught in a crap recorder and having to reel in the slinky coils of songs. Hoping you didn't lose your David Bowie or Talking Heads.


Ahh, it is good to remember Paris.

I went there as a young thing, a silly au pair in a smelly cul de sac that has become prime real estate now. A posh architect's office downstairs (they are international stars I am told) where before there were Indian sweatshops and a cranky concierge. To think I was living there when Christo covered Pont Neuf in silk cloth. Does anyone remember that? Now, what an event!

vegan cajou cremeux at café pinson

It's different now. Pricey. Snooty. Trashy. Vegan. Pricey. Still so much to love. The leafy squares, and picnicking so much in vogue. The ever-cranky waiters and big glass bowls of Belgian Leffe beer. The avenues, though the traffic seems wilder than ever before. The bridges, the sunlit stone bridges. Lovers in your path, thinking they are lost and new. Even those in the cheap hotel room upstairs, a see-sawing screeching of the bed, then those sighs. (How satisfied the young dude seems at breakfast with his many piercings and immense appetite. She doesn't show so I will have to imagine her.)

Neverchanging

In the train I meet a beautiful Estonian woman who is thinking of going raw - as in raw food only. In the airport I read the most wonderful stories of James Salter for the very first time.