I turn left out of Institut Catholique
dashing across the street with leslie, giggling madly, baguettes on our brains and her boy on our tail
past the monoprix, past the sadaharu aoki patisserie
buying overpriced exquisite macarons with emma, gleaming green pistache with darker jade green filling, the first macaron that so perfectly welcomed me into loving them
past the blue bookshop on the left
wandering in, the old lady with her cat at her seat near the window, my hands rifling over old art books and tattered french paperbacks, one small room filled head to toe with books and stories, yellowed paper and newspaper scraps, those beige and used-to-not-be beige, the comforting familiar smell the same a continent away
past the two boulangeries with lines of hungry parisiens, chatting and teeth chattering, waiting for their turn at the dash quick warm counter, je prends le jambon, merci, lunch
turning left at the intersection with the jardin du luxembourg
sometimes turning right to pop into the gardens, sitting on a bench eating a perfectly peeled clementine, watching french children bien habillés play in the sand of le petit jardin de la roseraie
walking past the statue of a girl and her oversize hat, always thinking, always bronzed and pensive, chin on hand, elbow on knees
past saint sulpice, past the square with all the little shops
walking around the shops with rachel, rushing from pastry shop to pastry shop in a wild goose chase for our gastronomie class, pressing our noses against the glass of a master chocolatier with giant orange chocolate pumpkins in the window, later replaced by melting polar bears by the time the leaves had fully abandoned the trees
continuing straight, towards the river, past the little bookshops and galleries, past that one corner of a building with ever-changing street art
past the ladurée and the floral perfume and soap store next to it, tropical scents wafting out no matter the weather
past the assouline with the massive coffee table art books
ducking in and imagining a world where I have to come here to furnish my library, to purchase grand tomes on Dior and Schiaparelli, elegant statues and life-size library sheep
past more art galleries, filled with miniature shadowboxes, scenes of children at the louvre, or a perfect blue piece of pottery, glazed and crackled, art galleries that never seem to sell a piece and yet always stay in business, paying their astronomical left bank rents
crossing the street to the left to avoid the cars and construction
turning left again when the street stops, walking parallel to the seine, past dries van noten and his florals, past the designer rachel saw during paris fashion week, moon young hee
turning right now to cross the street, dashing carelessly across when the little human turns from green to red a second too soon, watching for careening businessmen on bicycles and busses lumbering down their lane
crossing the seine, pausing to gulp in the fact that I am in paris, that this is the seine, that down there the spires of the notre dame are scratching the sky, that across from me the louvre waits, stately matron that she is
realizing the time, dashing around the couples taking pictures of each other,
isn’t it gorgeous, just get one more of me like this, no hold the phone the other way
waiting for the traffic to stop and the light to turn, walking briskly past the gorge of tourists, the men hawking the same five glittering eiffel towers, in pink and blue and red, the famous gleaming pyramid in front of me
making it to class in the nick of time