Inside the gardens there's a comfortable quiet, letting you think and deliberate as you trudge along the intricate paths. Over by the museum the old men are playing chess, looking serious and thoughtful and moving invisible pieces with their heads and hands. Now and then a youngster comes along and beats them, and they throw up their hands and smile and shake their heads, all the while congratulating the young man who doesn't know what to say and starts looking embarrassed at winning. He might have the fastest brain, but life is still unknown to him, he's not a man yet and he feels it when the old and hard hands of the chess players tap him on the shoulder.
As you walk on, you think of Edvard Munch's words about painting: "I'm not painting what I see, I'm painting what I saw." They're good words, describing words - telling of a man whose life is an inner one. As opposed to depicting the model in her current state, she is used as a vehicle of expressing how he felt at some moment in space and time. Hence, of course, expressionism, you say out loud, and start humming.
There's a new sculpture up today. It wasn't there yesterday, you're sure of that. It's a modern piece, something intangible and impossible, boasting of nothing except being matter, having existence. The title you've already forgotten, all you can remember is that gray of granite or marble of whatever sort of rock was used, and you wonder why on earth someone would spend valuable time making something like that.
Walking on, feeling lighter now, less pressured. Your steps are lound in the shingle under your feet, your thoughts floating freely, touching on all kinds of pretty and comfortable subjects, letting you make up good stories about all the people you pass. There's a man singing a french song as he walks along the path up ahead. He must be a lawyer, you think, and you smile at him as he passes. He doesn't see it, but you still did it and that goes a long way. There's a red haired girl with a camera coming towards you now. You wonder if she's going to ask you to take her picture in front of the palace, but she passes, looking at her shoes. You think about her hair, wondering why it is bright red like that, trying to see her idea. Maybe there is no idea, except that red is a pretty color and it makes her feel special, knowing she's got that red hair for everyone to see. Maybe she's very shy, and fights it by doing something out of the ordinary.
The best thing to watch in Paris are all the wonderful lovers. Young and old, gay and straight, they're always tangled in hugs and kisses and tender words spoken so close they go right into the other persons mought. Their hands are all over, silently making love to their lover, eyes carefully watching as light sounds of pleasure bubble out and into the hot and cold air of the evening. Right now you're watching a couple that have been running laps together. They've stopped under the trees, already sweating and panting from the run, feeling lovely and tired and wanting the other person close. She's thin, with wide good looking hips and a mild, loving face. He's bigger, with a broad chest and well formed hands. She's holding him close, whispering into his mouth some secret for them to share, licking his lips between words. He looks dreamily into space, feeling happy and lucky and loving the evening and their tired breaths. All this you see in just a second, feeling deeply happy and melancholy.
Parallel to the rue d'Assas of Strindberg runs rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. Somewhere in that rue Hemingway used to live back in the 20's. He's not there anymore, you can't even find his house, and the Café des Lilas is so expensive now you can't help but burst into laughter. Walking home you pass the Rotonde, ideally placed for people watching - and people in Paris this evening are looking exceptionally good. A beer is 9 euros. That's 2 days worth of decent food. There's no way you can do that. Rummaging around your pockets you find some coins and start counting. It's not looking so good. 20 cents, 25, 30, 40 - 46 cents. They won't even let you smell the coffee pot for that silly sum. You stand outside for a while, looking in at the lights and people of the café, and out at the Boulevard Montparnasse, keeping your ground. It's your corner now, you can stay there for as long as you want. So many wonderful people, looking so well dressed, full of style and joie de vivre. At home you have a good shirt, clean and decent pants, and a nice pair of shoes, just waiting to be worn. With a smile you think of the last time you wore them, a night of jazz at the Caveau de la Huchette that ended with someone needing to put your shoes back on for you.
Trudging home you admire a group of kids - 15 or 16 years old, maybe - drinking wine under some trees, looking silly and happy and yelling at eachother. Grinning, you come to think of Roberto Benigni in "La vita é bella" - such a wonderful figure - beautiful, beautiful. What a night! Now back to work, happy.
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