Violoncelliste, Timothée Marcel, from the National Conservatory of Music of Paris performing Les Suites 1 – 3 – 4 of Bach. It is part of the St. Ephrem concerts series amp concerts. The Syrian church, as it stands in this 3rd rebuilt building, went up around the time that Bach composed. Hearing it in stone and candelight seemed particularly fitting.
The Pantheon from part of the far-flung empire pops up not far from what is now the club strip with bar-lures as most doors trying to call people in to dance or drink or eat. by 9 at night it is crammed, a flood stream of people.
Bookstores are everywhere. Each one has a dozen or dozens of people. A hum of constant activity at the cash register. One store just for science books. Another for history books. Another for antiques. Artisan books everywhere; cookbook chapbooks. Even the publisher catalogues are better produced and more lush than most published books in Canada. By a cash register, no key chains or candy for impulse buys but a Marcel Proust. What a lovely literate country.
Below the stone wall a nook with space for a bench and a couple. He sits, ankle crossed at knee and the magazine is open to a magazine article: 7 signs of Jealousy. Her arm is around his shoulder, her head on his other shoulder and the breeze lifts her waist length blonde hair so it wraps around his head.
Below, a changing swirl of people. Strollers, a frisbee game crisscrossing the four games of boules and the 5 or 6 active soccer games coming thru that.
A father has a girl out on a two-wheel bike as she learns to balance and her little brother behind on a wooden push trike.
A kid has a remote control hovercraft. Kids chase each other through the stone stands. People read and sun, bill and coo. Kids have commandeered one of the water taps and are refilling their water bottles and using them as improv water guns. Where theatre troops staged, a team use for goal posts.
Les arènes de Lutèce, built around 280, was filled in, built over, lost, found, considered for demolition, saved by a citizen’s movement, spearheaded in part by Victor Hugo, and made a public park almost a century ago.
Glad I did that everyday act of heroism of getting out of bed, getting out of the humid misting rainbow-sparkling shower and getting outside.
I overdid it with this 12 hour jaunts about. It was wonderful, full Glad I have no where to go today because I was out of commission entirely for 13 hours after that and a, slowly getting into the day 6 hours into the day.
Glad for gentle tinkle of piano music coming from nearby.
Glad for a bookstore find of a 1976 chapbook of poetry printed on black with white ink.
Glad/Sad/Content to have finished Owen Sheer’s 2005 book. One of the best writers I’ve ever encountered. That is what a skilled communicator can do in the realm of poetry and story.
Too many small good beauties to enumerate or describe but here’s one more: drawers that slide themselves closed silently.
Glad for ample everywhere fresh food market and to avoid grocery stores (chains are inferior worldwide). Glad to have gadded about, found wonderful things, including pistachio pop and the world’s best mango. Glad to have a fridge of food to cook something new, ideas and a pressure cooker on hand.
Glad to be warm and with a roof and chance of sleep tonight.
Quote: “A man who lives, not by what he loves but what he hates, is a sick man.” ~ Archibald Macleish