
Paris keep inspiring generation after generation of writer wannabes, head-to-toe-dressed-in black-chain-smoking thinker (who hang a lot in Le Deux Magot, hoping to be inspired by the ghost of Sartre), emerging artist, hopeless romantic and last but not least, million of wide-eyed travelers who seeks cultural enlightment and je ne sais quoi Paris is famous for. I was in the last category. I came to Paris to be charmed, enlighted and optimistic that Paris would infect me with its illustrious allure…
I had one Parisian day.
I woke up in a compact hotel room, hardly a space for bathroom.
I rode in Metro. With Le Figaro-reading-workers. With crumpled, unbathed student.
I had croissant and café au lait in Chez-something. The only food I can spell correctly.
I walked through a remnant wall and entered history of civilization, Louvre.
I encountered Winged Victory, placed in the top of staircase, ready to fly.
I met Venus de Milo, whose unarmed yet bewitched many hearts.
I saw Monalisa, overrated mystery still smiling ruefully.
I was a small fish, swimming in a bowl of universe.
I woke up in a compact hotel room, hardly a space for bathroom.
I rode in Metro. With Le Figaro-reading-workers. With crumpled, unbathed student.
I had croissant and café au lait in Chez-something. The only food I can spell correctly.
I walked through a remnant wall and entered history of civilization, Louvre.
I encountered Winged Victory, placed in the top of staircase, ready to fly.
I met Venus de Milo, whose unarmed yet bewitched many hearts.
I saw Monalisa, overrated mystery still smiling ruefully.
I was a small fish, swimming in a bowl of universe.
Then
I went out, afraid it would became too much, wreck the magic.
I crossed Pont du Carrousel, left my enlightment pyramid behind.
I watched sleepy old man sitting, watching his petit bookshop of vintage delight along Seine.
I peeked at couple stealing French kisses on Pont Neuf, bitten by romance.
I heard my stomach protesting in unison, of thirst and hunger. Even in Paris.
I kept stopping in front of shop windows selling china and exotic objects of art.
Then
I sat down on red and green rattan chair, placed my elbow on green glossy table.
I ordered Croquet de Monsieur and my second café au lait, and waiting.
I captured people walking by, in hurry, in all shapes and colors imaginable, then waiting. Still.
I savored cheese melted tenderly, mixed with black sweetness of cafein, in my mouth.
I left Café de Flore in hurry, after asked Jacquez The Waiter took my picture while smiling knowingly (Ah, touriste!).
I strutted through Musee d’Orsay, like Catherine Deneuve with Paris Museum Pass.
I gasped, stunned, tempted and fell for Monet, Manet, Renoir, Degas, Lautrec and Gauguin. All over again.
I was swimming in impression of colors for eternity, etched forever in brain.
Then
I was furiously back to the Rue on six o’clock.
I used my angry tired feet once again, chasing Hemingway shadow from many years ago.
I found him in Shakespeare and Co.
I felt myself lost, an Alice in her Wonderland of Books.
I touched dusty bonded books, perhaps once read by Kerouac.
I bought some books, wishing I was buying history.
Then
I bought a thick shwarma and found a bench near the Seine.
I scorned tourists in Batobus, hysterically blitzing whatever they thought they see.
I washed down the last piece with red wine, tipsy with Paris.
Finally
I walked back to my cot.
Half-heartedly, drunk and dreaming.
Yearning for every day of my life
It would be like this.
Moi,
Drunk of Paris.
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