Razor sharp winds needling heavy clouds perforating those miserly grey temples the leaking twilight beaming warmth like celestial beacons reminding Lady Earth and all her children the sun is always watching observing the mundane and insane and when it may seem the bleakest and blackest the hope of light is real.
It’s easy to get lost in the romance of Paris in the mystique of Paris you can taste it the aroma of sweet spice and lingering vanilla tobacco you can hear it seductively whispering notes of music and conversations from streetside cafes you can see it in the architecture both masculine and feminine lustily snapped by tourists as evidence that for a brief interlude they were part of the city of love but I’ll never be that naive because – Paris – will always be a den of wolves in designer clothing to me.
Aged 8 dawdling with small feet struggling on a cobbled urban jungle a metre behind my parents – my protectors – when the city tried to tear me away a candy-striped shirt Monsieur in dirty grey-white trousers that matched his coiffed hair the strength of his rancid breath more powerful than his tanned arms silent screams searing my lungs survival instincts kicked in a case of fight then flight catching up with my father fury igniting his face powering his legs as he tried to chase the man down like a lion whose pride had been attacked but wolves are cowards and hide until it’s safe to attack again.
A couple of life lessons learned. Aged 8. Early for some Too late for others.
Paris is only romantic in print. You only see what they want you to see.
Wolves don’t scare me. Face your fears. Cowards retreat in the face of confrontation.