i cancelled my evening plans to drink hot chocolate & read "tattered tales," but kept my party dress on while doing so. the days are growing colder & my radiator is humming along pleasantly, warming up the pajamas that i drape across its skeletal body before wriggling in to. i am writing to you from my room, tucked beneath the sloping ceiling & looking out onto the chimney pots of paris: oh, the luxury!
this morning i went to the flea market just outside of porte de clignacourt. as i was warming myself up in a cafe with a creme & warming into my new book, the book just fell out of my hands in that silly way that people drop things. it was a detached act, not something that i told my body to do, but it nevertheless tumbled from my fingers & into the dirty dishwater behind the bar. "the red shoes & other tattered tales" is now legitimately tattered, despite the barman's attempt to dry it with the heat of the espresso maker.
i am on the metro-strike fitness plan & walk to ballet in the 20th, school in the 7th, the opera in the 11th, & the pompidou in the 4th. my greengrocer asked me how i was handling the strike & upon hearing my tales of long walks & woollen mittens, he clutched my arm & said "oh, la pauvre!" i tried to explain that, with days like this that are full of crisp sunlight & crisper leaves, i would probably walk anyway. on friday night, after running all the way to the opera, we discovered that the stagehands were on strike as well. but no matter! the opera was all gray lace dresses, singing about ermine & pearls, & people-watching. it was short-queues due to the strikes, but the most expensive seats in the house ours for only five euro! culture comes cheap for the starving-student, for those who are willing to wait.
this morning i went to the flea market just outside of porte de clignacourt. as i was warming myself up in a cafe with a creme & warming into my new book, the book just fell out of my hands in that silly way that people drop things. it was a detached act, not something that i told my body to do, but it nevertheless tumbled from my fingers & into the dirty dishwater behind the bar. "the red shoes & other tattered tales" is now legitimately tattered, despite the barman's attempt to dry it with the heat of the espresso maker.
i am on the metro-strike fitness plan & walk to ballet in the 20th, school in the 7th, the opera in the 11th, & the pompidou in the 4th. my greengrocer asked me how i was handling the strike & upon hearing my tales of long walks & woollen mittens, he clutched my arm & said "oh, la pauvre!" i tried to explain that, with days like this that are full of crisp sunlight & crisper leaves, i would probably walk anyway. on friday night, after running all the way to the opera, we discovered that the stagehands were on strike as well. but no matter! the opera was all gray lace dresses, singing about ermine & pearls, & people-watching. it was short-queues due to the strikes, but the most expensive seats in the house ours for only five euro! culture comes cheap for the starving-student, for those who are willing to wait.
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