Cara Nao,
I am typing from Paris. The happy couple on the front of your vintage
postcard are picture perfect in their embrace. With the black and white photo
and hand coloured turquoise for her dress and her fuchsia pink lips ready to be
kissed. I rarely speak of my romantic life to many as it hurts too much. I
think you would understand... I came here to find a certain man which I have
travelled here to see. Be it 20,000km away or 20 minutes on foot is too far. I
feel like when I am here I wait. I get so tired of sleeping alone and for
someone to wake up next to in an embrace. To go down to the corner to bring
back that Parisian delight a pain au chocolat and make me a cup of
coffee. It is not as cold as you would think. L’amour est dur toujours.
I am not sure if I have the courage to pack up and make the move to Melbourne.
I am in a café called de la Poste. I love the name. No one bothers me in
Montmartre when I type outside au terrasse but towards Barbes -
Château Rouge I get looks, complaints from other customers, people laugh
and point, cars and motorcycles beeping and tooting their horns at me, god
damn! Incroyable! However amongst the bobos of Montmartre I do
not lift an eyebrow. I have to start to accept I behave like one of them the bourgeoise
bohemian. I dream of la vie bohème like they do which no longer
exists, those days are long gone. Amy Whinehouse is playing in the background
of the café. A Parisian punk tries to talk politics with me over her espresso
while we politely light each other cigarettes how fitting rattling on about the
end of days and anarchist hopes of days to come. I think what time does to my
soul and how distance cripples my spirit.
= fay =
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