Close at hand

 

 

My visit was further enhanced

by various tactile expressions: 

 

Vin chaud and a new wool wrap

to ward off the chill.

 

Stiff linen napkins at Ladurée.

 

The heft of silverware at Musée D'Orsay.

 

Heavy, elegant menus.

 

Chilled fingers

stealing heat from a cup of chocolate.

 

Silk wall coverings at the Carnavalet.

 

The supple warmth of

a nutella crepe.



 

Eric Bompard's cashmere.

 

The exchange of bills and coins.

 

Sorting through bins of used books.

 

Vintage furs, silks and leather bags.

 

New "furs" and silks.

 

Soothing lotions.

 

A hot shower and warm bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Evocative echoes

I loved my trip to Paris.

It was a sensory-intensive experience

from beginning to end.

 

We had many drizzly, but mild, days of

walking to and fro

about the city, absorbing the nuances of its 

quotidian rhythms.

(I wish I'd snapped a shot of the le Pain Quotidian)

My clothing selection was

adequate

- which is all I had asked of it -

in light of the laundry

facilities in our

charming apartment.

 

So, what did I hear?

 

I was awakened several mornings by the

sound of the rasping broom of a

street sweeper below our windows.

 

 

This pianist livened the street corner

at a flea market on a dreary day.

 (We kept hoping the ladies would break into song.)

Rain on my umbrella.

Church bells.

The organ at Notre Dame.

A boy's choir performing the Hallelujah Chorus.

A piano recital in a nearby church.

The melody of conversation.

The whine of approaching motorcycles.

Car horns.

An accordionist on the metro.

Street musicians doing their best with the Beatles.

Laughing children.

The click of heels on cobblestone.

Late-night revelers.

The hushed reverence of memorial places.