Paris Sounds

I take copious notes each trip; this is the element of blogging that I love. I pay attention.  So even though the trip is behind me, my notes should be transcribed and this is the first in a series of how Paris touches my senses, this one on sound.

“The sound of a kiss is not so loud as that of a cannon, but its echo last a great deal longer”–Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

Paris streets. the roar of motorcycles, the sing song of a police siren and the ting tinging of a bicycle bell, the laughter of a child, the deafening sound of silent stares from the homeless, “one euro five” repeated by the men with coal-black skin who sell miniature Eiffel Towers, and

the footsteps of pedestrians saying quand même, alors, exacte, eh bien, voilá, merci, merde, bonjour, en fait, bonne soirée, s’il vous-plait and ooh, la, la. Paris streets.

Paris metro. the whir of trains in and out, the discord of an accordion–make it stop, the angelic sound of an aged man singing an opera–don’t let it end, the moans of the hopeless begging for scraps, and

the footsteps to the beat of a funeral dirge of hurrying passengers saying quand même, alors, exacte, eh bien, voilá, merci, merde, bonjour, en fait, bonne soirée, s’il vous-plait and ooh, la, la. Paris metro.

Paris home. the clammer of construction, the repeated buzzing of our doorbell, the clanging of bottles into recycling bins, the brain-aching monotany of music lessons nextdoor till 3am, the passionate song of a “blackbird singing in the dead of night”–excellent song, terrible neighbor–and

footsteps on the ancient stairs of neighbors who stay out much too late saying quand même, alors, exacte, eh bien, voilá, merci, merde, bonjour, en fait, bonne soirée, s’il vous-plait and ooh, la, la. Paris home.

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