sunday for a sinner
While all the faithful French Catholics of the 16th arrondissement take off to church Sunday morning, I lie in bed, my head pounding and my body sore.
Last night I sat with Harold on the edge of the Seine, our legs dangling close to the water, a bottle of wine between us. Boats of tourists passed by, making waves in the Seine, their arms going up in waves as well. "It's funny," he said, "if any of these people passed us in the street they wouldn't say hello."
We had started to go bar hunting when we decided to stop into a small shop and buy the cheapest bottle of wine instead. After a bottle and a half of wine over dinner at my place, we weren't ready to stop there, or pay twice the price of a bottle for one glass in a swanky set up. So there we were, on the Seine, a bottle of wine wrapped in a plastic bag being passed between us.
Back in the busy streets I taught him what a body slam was. And amongst the tourists and bars, we ran at each other at full force, smacked chests, and I flew smack onto the ground. Strangers gave worried looks as I sat on the ground laughing.
Not long after, I ran out of a bar we were in to buy my friend rolling papers. As I ran I slipped on my heel and fell once more. I got up from the sidewalk to see a whole restaurant full of tourists staring right at me. I brushed myself off, smiled, and told them all I was okay.
So that's why my body is sore and my head is pounding.
It was two in the afternoon when I finally decided to face the sunlight.
And even under that irritable pain that a hangover leaves in the back of your mind and the pit of your stomach, today's beauty stunned me.
I walked along the Seine for a couple of hours, the sun pouring down on the city for the first time in days. I let autumn leaves break under my feet. I stopped and stared down at the water, the sun dancing on its surface. I let myself get lost in some unknown streets and riffled through some book stands.
Sunday's are beautiful in Paris. Everything but cafes, restaurants and cinemas close down for the day, and everyone is out walking. Cafes are full of people stopping for coffee, talk and a cigarette. Everyone is at ease, their long fall jackets hanging open, scarves wrapped around their necks, their arms wrapped around their lovers.
Even for a sinner with an aching head, it's a good day to be in Paris.
Last night I sat with Harold on the edge of the Seine, our legs dangling close to the water, a bottle of wine between us. Boats of tourists passed by, making waves in the Seine, their arms going up in waves as well. "It's funny," he said, "if any of these people passed us in the street they wouldn't say hello."
We had started to go bar hunting when we decided to stop into a small shop and buy the cheapest bottle of wine instead. After a bottle and a half of wine over dinner at my place, we weren't ready to stop there, or pay twice the price of a bottle for one glass in a swanky set up. So there we were, on the Seine, a bottle of wine wrapped in a plastic bag being passed between us.
Back in the busy streets I taught him what a body slam was. And amongst the tourists and bars, we ran at each other at full force, smacked chests, and I flew smack onto the ground. Strangers gave worried looks as I sat on the ground laughing.
Not long after, I ran out of a bar we were in to buy my friend rolling papers. As I ran I slipped on my heel and fell once more. I got up from the sidewalk to see a whole restaurant full of tourists staring right at me. I brushed myself off, smiled, and told them all I was okay.
So that's why my body is sore and my head is pounding.
It was two in the afternoon when I finally decided to face the sunlight.
And even under that irritable pain that a hangover leaves in the back of your mind and the pit of your stomach, today's beauty stunned me.
I walked along the Seine for a couple of hours, the sun pouring down on the city for the first time in days. I let autumn leaves break under my feet. I stopped and stared down at the water, the sun dancing on its surface. I let myself get lost in some unknown streets and riffled through some book stands.
Sunday's are beautiful in Paris. Everything but cafes, restaurants and cinemas close down for the day, and everyone is out walking. Cafes are full of people stopping for coffee, talk and a cigarette. Everyone is at ease, their long fall jackets hanging open, scarves wrapped around their necks, their arms wrapped around their lovers.
Even for a sinner with an aching head, it's a good day to be in Paris.
posted by Gillian Young at 9:39 AM
5 Comments:
Great stories, my choice would be the the vino-by-the-river scene as well.
Just got back from my own wanderings after a veg-out morning indoors, was out on the leafy trails near the canal here, singing along with the iPod because there was no one around for miles.
Those photos that you posted are excellent, I can tell from the sky and the clouds that it must have been a refreshing day.
Glad all is well - Jenn in NJ
Sunday was a very beautiful day! But I feel the dark and the winter coming. That scares me a bit...
Any way, have a nice week.
Mirella
nice pictures, by the way.
Gill...
Last time you had a fan it was spinnin on your ceilin'.
Anyway, unblock me sometime and we can throw disses at each other.
~J
body slams...that is too funny. I love this.
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