| Postcards
PARIS S--, It's impossible to forget that this is a lover's city: the broad buildings clutch the boulevards, the balconies curve like the wrist of a seductress. I met my Algerian friend at a cafe where Sartre held court and picked apart croissants, -ismes, and -ologies. I dragged her with me to France's Pantheon, where we had to elbow pilgrims to see Voltaire's tomb, and to Versailles, where gilt mirrors multiplied the pomp and pompadours, specifically because she said these places had always seemed off-limits. In St. Michel, over fondue and the new beaujolais, we pounded the table, decrying the folly of "la France pour les francais" and affairs of the heart. I think I would have liked living la vie boheme, succored on cheap red wine and the sight of Sacre Coeur. I-- says I am an epicure. I could be French. Paris |