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Chroma

Ocre. Wind and ocher ocher esparto. Ochre pieces worn by autumn. Or simply ocher ocher. Perhaps, as someone said, early spring give way to a new palette filled with warm colors and dyes. However, for the moment, Paris is still ocher.



However, sometimes, between the intersections coppery brownish color glimpses of the looming seem fearful. Afraid to disturb in any way the chromatic harmony, hardly knowing it, fail to reach parks and avenues, piers and balustrades, pavers and passersby. So, heads down on the sidewalk indigo, gray-green on the roofs or tarps edged in garnet show themselves in the streets, trying to pass unnoticed to the objectives of photographers and curious tourists. The gray mist of mourning the boulevards in the frequent rainy afternoons or jade adorning the buildings visited and admired, they become allies of the painter usual, more art dealer artist tries to capture daily amalgam size a blank canvas .

Although the target soon flooded streets and gardens, will be guest of passages and arcades, covered walkways and paved, and soon leave the ocher boulevards and cafes. Soon the city will wash your face and fall left behind. Soon, very soon, another Paris born.

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Happy Birthday.

like a broken bird,

something that does not work,

slicing the air and cries;

happen to me, sad

solemn reverence

a feather, wind

laminated

syllables

me.

know nothing of the wind

tell me, you're just

me when I realize I

from below.

"You know nothing of the wind." Barbara Butragueño

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Le Tire-Bouchon

had decided to devote the afternoon. After a week between the gray walls of the school with no company other than the memories of Rousseau and his flirtations with the French constitutional litigation, had decided to devote the afternoon. Montmartre expected.

Calvary Street "has never been a more suitable name for a street welcomes one of the most historic Paris in the 18ème arrondissement, whose streets seem to wait long. Squares and cobbled pathways are embedded in a canvas of warm colors and thick brushstrokes. Filled cafes and artists offering their services line the sidewalks, while pensioners spend idle hours playing chess in the corner before the curious eyes of tourists. And in the background, the faint sound of a piano is to draw attention to a cafe on the rue Norvins with Poulbot. A coffee that, because of his unkempt appearance and gray, would usually unnoticed.

But Le Tire-Bouchon is not any coffee. No draws tourists willing to shell out unimaginable amounts for a simple coffee or marriages middle-aged daily terraces lining the wide boulevards of Paris. Its walls filled with memories and writings of any other aspiring writer to fill the air. "It sells second hand bike at a good price," can be read along with a poem based on the adventures of one Frederick in Le Chat Noir. Photos of musicians, poets, painters and even tightrope walkers crowd next to a main beam that serves as home to an old piano. Brel, they say, began frequenting their tables when he moved to Paris back in 1952, why a copper portrait of him presiding over the main hall. In the background, filling the air, bitter and soft voice of Grand Jacques.



The coffee company and small interventions at the local piano Owner enlivened the hours passed, and before I was barely has time to return. Returning to Paris from the lights and shadows of the great avenues and boulevards, bikes and cloth coats. Return, but knowing that there is a corner at the end of the butte de Montmartre where time stops. Back knowing that Le Tire-Bouchon expected.



Pd. By the way, Barbara, can I have your permission to have one of your poems decorate your walls?

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Dominique

Dominique is an elder of those of old ones. Of those that you never despise a smile and they give you deserve kindness yet. Of those who rise from bed at dawn to begin sentences with good standing the day and, very early, opening the doors of what has always been his home, his little corner, and give it to all passersby every day decide to modify their way and make a little visit. Besides all that, Dominique is my neighbor. Or at least that I like to think of me. Dominique

owns one of the people here call bouquinistes, small stalls that crowded the banks of the Seine. The Dominique is, specifically, the Quai Voltaire up to the Pont Royal, halfway between the corner of Rue Rue du Bac and Beaune, and from there to greet us each morning, often without knowing it, and reminds us how lucky we are to have him as a neighbor.



But Dominique is not alone. Soon, very early, the Parisian cobblestones begin to fill with pedestrians and cyclists. But Paris is in no hurry. No noise of horns and noisy traffic jams. Neither suicide nor executives heated cab drivers. Only the incessant traffic of tourists, a majority English-blurs somewhat the environment. Paris, just enjoy yourself. Know how.

Boulevard de Saint Germain The sand is another matter. Large and famous trademarks monopolize almost all corners. Contemporary art galleries are becoming more frequent. And the Parisian bourgeoisie on the scene. And is that Sciences Po is very, very bourgeois, but wants to deny. In fact, they arrive at 27 rue Saint Guillaume student community welcomes celebrating and commemorating the participation of the Institute of Political Studies of Paris in the French May. Social and political advertising occupies most of the tables who kindly gave the University for students to freely express their social concerns. And a big sign inviting to students for the fifth general assembly of the association of gays, lesbians Sciences Po and transsexuals. Proclamations communists and socialists everywhere out of the mouths of students, which boast separate from those young people who are jacketed to go to class, "those conservative Catholics of the old aristocracy," they say. However, as is known, but the monkey dressed in silk ...

The Boulevard Saint-Germain wash your face a little late in the afternoon. There are only leaves of a beige-brown trees drop escort Avenue. Only are the terraces of chic cafes and boulangeries announcing its closure. Then, and only then, when the city slumbers. Numbing slowly, slowly but surely, only allowing time for cyclists managed to return home and passers dissipate slowly building the last few minutes of light.

Upon returning home, Dominique is lying on his bench, always attentive to his little corner of old Paris, although aware that it's getting late. That tomorrow is another day.

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A city, a street piano and Bartolo ... Paris

Je suis déjà à Paris. Has cost, but I am. After a tortuous journey, I am. And the city of light is not what they paint. At the moment, for me, are just endless streets, a woman who looks at you edge up and down to see if you rent the apartment and a wonderful, at the same heat-nutella crêpe. Alejandro is a gastronomic guide to power.

Nevertheless, the kinds of promises. And is that Whitey was right: this city is made for me. Street cafes, boulevards that invite long walks, cozy bookstores everywhere ... The dream of any self-respecting bohemian.

the moment we are staying at the Hotel des Allies, in the rue Barthollet, very close to the Pantheon of Illustrious Men and the heart of the Latin Quarter, but despite that at first seem like a great place, appearances are deceiving. The hostel, and actually our room every night
surprise with a very pleasant smell of ammonia, or other substance that I dare not guess, that hardly allows us to sleep, mission, on the other hand, it seems the less difficult because of our wonderful neighbors and bath-room. A French family-friendly delights us every night with a wide range of nagging, little music video game and various noises, very nice of them. Added to this is that the three horsemen of the apocalypse share a very spacious cabin of 10 m2, where no room for luggage. Let alone the piano.

Ay! The piano! What joys and what is giving me trouble! After the ordeal to take as hand luggage !!!!! on the plane, now watches me day and night, watching, remembering always that very soon, five months, I will have to lead to Madrid. And, as I said Mrs IBERIA, "how hard it is to be a pianist!". Thank you very much, Amaro, for your advice on dealing with our beloved airline.

But everything seems to be fixing. This afternoon, in fact, less than two hours finally find floor. At the foot of the Louvre. In the Rue des Pyramides. And finally leave the hostel. You may, however, miss the neighborhood of the hostel, especially the Chinese down giving us rat meat for beef-swear that, whatever it was, it was not beef, and the League for the Defence of the law s of Animals.




quite possibly take me to update it, until I definitely agree, I have no regular access to internet. Only in Sciences Po. So I'll go at my own pace, you know, easy.

best for now: These gentlemen, gentlemen did not, men with a capital "over fifty that, far from the stereotypes that paint the Parisian unpleasant people, if you are lost on the Boulevard Saint-Germain and I come ask "Est-ce que je peux vous aider?". And with an enviable patience, education tact and try to help you as best they can. Thank God there are still people like that. And the best, our friend the coffee, rue de Claude Bernard. Vive la France!

Incidentally, since I've noticed that limping a little ...;)