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Paris in the rain. At a very New York cafe, with Parisian touches. You know the type: Bullet Proof coffee, matcha lattes, Chaka tea — that sort sort of universal Millennial design grammar.
Paris in the rain. The first time I’ve felt comfortable here in 24 hours — just walking and thinking on my way to the Tinder date I’m about to be on. I felt incredibly depressed taking the Metro down to Notre Dame last night. That area along the Seine used to be so alive; ten years ago it was so alive. It was always touristy, but it’s gotten unbearable, just unbearable. I shouldn’t have wasted my time….
But I think I came to Paris just to see the burnt husks of the church towers. It’s like the city’s soul has died or withered. Shakespeare and co. bookstore was not the same either; it stopped being special when a George Whitman died. I used to be able to spend hours there: last night I just wanted to run out. People come in just to gawk at iconic bohemian culture. They have no idea that poetry actually inspired the place, the people — that book culture wasn’t just a brand, but a mode of existence, a liberating mode.
Tant pis.
