Paris, or The City I Forgot to Tell You About

At the beginning of January, Anna and I embarked on a train journey to the City of Dreams, the City of Gastronomic Proportions, the City of Poetry on Snowy Cars. While we were there, we did some stuff.

We walked by a wide and winding river. We ate some Kravitz-approved falafel. We ate some non-Kravitz-approved falafel. We hurt an ankle. We got lost in the snow on the grounds of Versailles. We were only wearing tights.

We stayed in a hotel with lavender hallways and an elevator so small we didn't want to be in it at the same time (well, Anna didn't want to be in it at the same time as me). We got overcharged for breakfast pastries. We saw a small painting of a very famous lady, and a lot of bigger paintings of less famous ladies.

We ate duck. We drank absinthe. We drank wine. We put cheese on our windowsill to keep it cold. We argued about the temperature of the room at night. We thought about buying a new pair of boots. We went to a market.


We saw a tower that glitters at night but not in the sun. We saw graves with kiss marks, and graves without kiss marks, and graves that look like someone's been sleeping in them. We saw beds that look like no one's been sleeping in them.

We smoked a tiny cigar, and we listened to "Aux Champs Elysees." We went to the Amelie cafe. We rode through a long, dark tunnel on a train that dropped us off outside our front door.