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|
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|
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.