Paris
Hemingway devotes an entire novel to it after years of having lived here and I'm bold enough to make an attempt after three days. Or have I already resigned to the inevitable inadequacy of my description?

Off the train it's nothing more than concrete and asphalt. Now when I see the staircase that climbs to the third floor of rue Cardinal Lemoine, it has given way to a century of boots carving sags into its steps.

I've been walking now for two hours, stopping for a glass or succumbing to photography. The little nooks I love in our cities I'm finding here have grown to full strength. Here in Paris these things radiate through walls and sidewalks, injecting themselves into the feet of Parisians on their way to bookstores and cafés. Seated on wicker chairs at marble tables they play chess and after the game discuss French culture over a bottle of wine. One man is an architect who will be returning shortly to the worksite where he oversees the construction of his current project. It's an important day. This afternoon they will be doing the finishing touches on the building, and pouring the concrete for the sidewalk out front.
- posted by Bill @ 03:22