"For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse"
Montmartre was a tomb. My Great Aunt left that out when she proposed the idea. Granted, that may have been because I (still) don't speak French, and our attempts to communicate usually involve a dictionary. She said "church?," I said "oui" and off we went, into a perfect Paris day. It was bright and sunny, … Continue reading Montmartre
If I miss the platform, I'll end up in Rome, alone in the dusk, without a return ticket. If I miss my Great Uncle, I'll end up in a tiny Italian village, alone in the dusk, without a return ticket. I don't speak French. My Great Uncle doesn't speak English. Neither of us speak Italian. What could go wrong?....Continue Reading
The roads in the Alps are narrow and curved, passing through tiny gaps and even tinier towns. As we go along, we keep overtaking bikers who smile and wave at us. If I were biking up an Alp, I would not be smiling, but I admire their fortitude. Strung along the way are crosses, like the one another Great Uncle erected for my Great Grandfather after he died, and stone prayer chapels, no bigger than a single room. I marvel at it all, asking as many questions in my broken French - English mismatch will allow...
I meet Aunt Ivette at midnight. I don’t mean for it to be midnight. France – the nation of perpetual transit issues – is in the middle of a strike and accordingly I spend a half-hour standing on the platform waiting, the straps of my backpack becoming heavier and heavier as the minutes drag on...
Nimbus of a Writer 