And Outside The Rain Fell...

Streets. There was something about those Parisian sidewalks that I miss so much. It took me a movie to remember them – “Before Sunset”. What was it about those streets?

Was it those poles lining the streets? Or those unblinking eyes that walked those streets? Maybe the cigarette butts lining them. Or that entire anticipation of finding what comes at the end of this street? And that one. And the one after that. Paris is one city where I have walked alone more than anywhere else, where I have picked up a golden brown maple leaf from the streets and crunched it in my hand, smelling it. It was never the wide boulevards and avenues that interested me. No, it was the little streets where the treasures of Paris were to be found. It might have been stumbling across monolith Obelisks never to see them again, or getting lost and yet continuing on, knowing well that I might be late to reach home. It was sometimes just a friendly smile from a wrinkled old monk outside a long forgotten church. I remember it now. It was so easily forgotten then.

It was those cafes we never had enough money to enter. And those windows above. Who was staring at me? There must be many. People. With not much to do. Looking for something interesting in the next random stranger walking the road. Their road.

I am sure I did not excite too many people. Nor did I bother to look up too often. I should have, in retrospect.

Sometimes, what I enjoyed most was just the fact that I was the only person walking that road. That sense of achievement. It’s hard to describe, really. Those streets gave me time to think. To discover those people I have loved, those I have wronged. There was this pervading charm about the city. It was just there. You might have stayed in Paris all your life and not felt it. May be. But I did.

It was those afternoon streets. Looking up at those Blue and Green boards. You can’t help but wonder – who Turgot was? Or whether Rue Royale ever had any loyalty living by it? Of whether Rue Papillon was named after a horse that drew King Louis XIV. Maybe it was his Admiral. Even a mathematician. At that point, it really didn’t matter. I could make Papillon whoever I wanted him to be. It was sometimes nothing but the pleasure of having discover a street names after someone you know. Or had at least heard about.

I miss those streets now. I miss the pleasure of walking them, and doing nothing really. But think.