Paris is throbbing. Vibrating and trembling. Like the dog in the makeshift den that leans against the wall around the Notre Dame construction site. Its owner, nowhere to be seen, will return later and the dog is waiting; the city rattles them to the bone and its pulse lulls them to sleep. Can you feel it in those high-ceilinged apartments with designer lamps and tiny olive trees adorning even tinier balconies, overlooking the squares lined with bistros and tabac shops, with street vendors and dirty pavements where cigarette butts soak in stale piss and spilled wine? Can you feel it in the shops of Saint-Honoré, boasting and lavish, dripping with money and lights, and hungry for ever more, a constant river of shoppers from Moscow, London and Hong-Kong, flowing in and out without noticing the dignified banks of the Seine, where the green bouquiniste boxes make the city a theme park of itself?
Perhaps it is because Paris is... continue reading now→
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