Time is Paris stretched out along the long rainy boulevards. Hand in hand we roamed. Umbrellas passed between us. Daily baguettes tucked inside our raincoats. Unlike life in the midlands where rain sent Englanders inside cottages and pubs, the Parisians embraced the discomfort. Downpours came then went with little reaction. No one sought shelter save pushing their cafe table slightly back under a protective awning.
We followed suit.
Waiting in lines for the catacombs and later lines to ascend the Eiffel Tower ever ready for the weather’s onslaught, but no longer deterred. It was in this state of mind that we entered the catacombs the morning of our second day in the City of Lights and where –confronting the bones of over six million people– we were reminded how very temporary, how very small our lives are indeed. Each skull a life known, a life gone, a life forgotten. Stacks upon stacks upon architectural rows of moments, of loves, of losses, of memories playing out before… Ingrid handled these intimate faces of death better than expected. Only once did she ask to leave. Only once did I pull her close, kiss her forehead to remind her (me) how sweet this moment, how sweet them all.
Graveness often demands levity. While we sipped wine at a cafe across a park (the girls had Fanta), Pablo provided it. I mentioned two things: firstly, the number of Parisians who still smoked despite the clear knowledge about its deadly effect; secondly, the number of male dogs that did not seemed to be neutered cruising by. Our family joke was born: the non-neutered cigarette smoking dog, who, naturally practices some hybrid version of French/Marxist philosophy.
Things he might say –
“If I want to pee on that tree, I have the freedom to pee on that tree,” inhales cigarette. “My human oppressor cannot stop me,” exhales cigarette, “Le woof!”
“Life is too short not to drink toilet water,” inhales/exhales cigarette, “Le woof!”
“The bourgeoisie think they can tell me not to lick my own testicles in public,” inhales/exhales cigarette, “Le woof!, I do what I want in this short, fleeting life.”
“You humans think you know pain; imagine being forced to walk on a three foot chain all your life,” inhales/exhales cigarette. “Stinking human pigs; I’ll show you pain. Le woof!”
“Le woof” grew to “Le meow” and “Le coo” as we ended our stay in Paris. As we toured Malta and now in our first day in Noto, Sicily the game continues. Orwell would be proud.
Perhaps the Parisians have long understood that life is anguish and anxiety as much as it is capturing the small joys — food, drink, friends, family. So indulge a little. Love a little more. Run through the rain in search of the good chocolates and the decent bottle of wine! Get lost hunting down the best falafel in city. Dine with kitty cats. Now. Today. Six million dead Parisians can’t be wrong.
Inhales/exhales. “Le Woof!”
28520 Miles 