Page 77 - NyghtVision Magazine Volume 3 #1

FALCON 77

HE THIRD DAY. The high- I recall our meal last nyght—without our com-
pitched screech of a mosquito in panions from DxO—and how JD and I, doing the
search of human flesh streams best we could, struggled to order in French. And
Tthrough my dreams. Instinctively, how our waiter, with awkward patience and lim-
I pull the comforter over my head and roll over. ited English, did his best to make us feel comfort-
But I’m awake now. I open my eyes just enough to able and welcome.
see if I have slept through the alarm, and realize Hours earlier, Olivier had deferred to Google
my phone is missing. And also, that the mosquito Translator, searching for English words as we dis-
isn’t a mosquito at all. It’s a scooter. The whine cussed—with incredible intensity—why our work
of its motor continues on into the light of early is different. It was a fascinating conversation. Re-
morning. vealing. Compelling. Engaging. Insightful. Pene-
Bothered by the absence of my phone—even trating. Disarming. Honest.
here, the ever-present appendage to my being—I It’s nearly 9:00 a.m. now, and the dance in the
reach for the black cargo pants draped over the street outside my window quiets. No more par-
back of a white, wooden, folding chair. Despite the ents walking children to school. No more scooters
still, long shadows that drift through the windows whining off into the infinite distance. No more in-
and onto the floor, the room is filled with light. My tense growl of a motorcycle pushed to its accel-
eyes burn. I shut them and reach out blindly for eration limits. The occasional whoosh of a car is
my sunglasses. Curling around on the couch, I tug all I notice now. I carry a cup of coffee to JD, who
at my pants, fumbling until I find a heavy pocket. suffers from allergies here. They have made him
My phone. I try to read the numbers that will tell miserable.
me what time it is. I get as far as the six, decide I I have had to let go of many things on this trip.
haven’t slept through the alarm, then remove my The workday at DxO begins close to 10:00 a.m.
sunglasses and lie back down. and ends at 8:00 p.m., or so. It is intense, but it is
Paris is alive. Even at this ungodly time. There a different intensity than the one I know from the
are people and voices and trucks and more mos- States. There is a comfort to it. An easiness I envy.
quitoes whining their way through the world out- There is a cemetery just a block away. I prom-
side my window. For the briefest of moments, I ised myself that I would stop there on my way in
think I’ll get up and close the window, but it is an to the office. Of course. We have joked with our
intention left unfulfilled. Despite sleeping sound- companions at DxO about our apartment being
ly, I am tired enough to disappear into the emp- close to the cemetery, a fact whose significance
tiness of sleep with the windows left as they are, was not lost on them. But in this moment, I need
wide open. to roust JD. And there is still one more cup of San
Marco coffee waiting for me in the kitchen.
THE SMOKY DARKNESS OF San Marco Ital- It is Friday, and I confess that I am already sad.
ian coffee fills the smallness of my room as I pen Tuesday is growing ever closer and soon, too soon,
these words. I savor its rich darkness as the life I shall once again leave the city that has taken my
of Paris continues to drift effortlessly through my heart. I need to take to the streets, to create as
windows. I wonder how a city so intense can be so many memories as I can.
relaxed. But Paris is Paris, at once herself and very
different in any given moment.

nyghtvision magazine RETUEN TO CONTENTS volume 3, number 1, WINTER 2013