Images and words by Al Nemaric
We spent most of our day at the cemetery, Pere Lachaise. It was the only place in Paris where Liz and I were completely lost. A stone maze where cobble stones point and twist and wind you towards more stone; even Buffy would have a hard time in this place.
You asked about the smells of Paris. Well, the Metro smells like piss. The streets? Cigarette smoke and bread. As you emerge from the steps of the Metro, men stand at the entrance cooking corn on supermarket trolleys. When it rains, the homeless flock to telephone booths where they sit on blankets, their backs against the scratched glass and paper cups at their feet.
I will never forget the faces of these strangers. Nor will I forget the face of Paris, the white city, as she stared at me. So still and majestic, blowing me cold kisses as I stood under the dome in the rain…