May 2006
Pond Maintenance at Versailles
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It’s Friday.
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People Are Dying to Get in Here!
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These were all taken in the Pere Lachaise cemetary. The middle photo is of the statue that’s on Oscar Wilde’s tomb; the top is, well, Rossini’s grave (imagine that); and the bottom is photographic evidence of a Focus among all the mossy tombs and marble monuments. Because you have to be able to get around.
Yes, I Was Really There
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Being Parisian
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There Is Never Any End to Paris
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Literally.
We walked and walked, stopped for wine and food, walked again, stopped for beauty products, walked some more…I got back on Saturday toned and smelling of French cosmetics.
It was great. (Pictures forthcoming this week, I promise.)
Finally, Literature
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Courtesy of our buddy Hemingway, here’s another Paris quote. (I know I’m always promising and not delivering, but this comes as part of a longer passage at the end of A Moveable Feast which I will indeed quote here someday. If I come back.)
There is never any end to Paris, and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other
(The image is of the hotel where Papa Hemingway would write, when he lived in Paris. He would walk over from his flat in the mornings. The French sign says something along the lines of, ‘Paul Verlaine died in this building January 8, 1896. Born March 30, 1844.’ Vive the internet!)
This Is All About Paris
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This Isn’t About Paris
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But it is about birds. (I forgot the book I wanted to use today, so bear with me. They could be Parisian birds.) I just found this. Good old Emily Dickinson.
A Bird came down the Walk—
He did not know I saw—
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,
And then he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass—
He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad—
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought—
He stirred his velvet head
Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home—
Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam—
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon,
Leap, plashless as they swim.