Starry Nights & Sunny Days in Paris

‘Time was soft there’, as it is here - sipping on Sumatran spices of organic vin chaud poured precisely by hands from Istanbul. A French wine, embracing cultures that compose Paris itself.

A single candle flickers within the innocuous shadows of this clandestine brasserie - silently tucked away, smiling serenely at passers by who do not dare enter such an establishment. Bamboo panelled cages encase dimmed bulbs that drift into a nostalgic state of slavery - listening to songs from Sierra Leone; Sudan; Senegal; Somalia - the lands which lie in the sun’s torturous twilight. Dimmed by Europe’s past, yet kept alive by light.

Alternating between reading and writing, she continues to sip on her vin de rouge, awaiting the arrival of chickpea flour frites. The chapter concludes. Doors fly open. The beat endures until Queen supersedes the strength of simple hostel dwellers - intoxicated with the intensity of close proximity. And yet, the guitar crumbles into the night, becoming lost in the Atlantic copper cloud of capitalist carelessness. Is Chet Baker lost in this crowd?

Tilting, tipsy on one leg in the corner boasts the bashful cello - giddy with memories of Ginsberg squatting in the squalid streets of downtown Paris. Meanwhile, a single cymbal dresses the beat in fictitious attire. Fingers creep over the piano at alarming speeds - sewing the seeds for the sax. A delightful duo. The perfect equilibrium. Hands move autonomously from the pirouetting feet that flirt with the wistful warmth at Les Paiules - a refuge from November’s grey and sombre sky. The sax sleeps and sings into my soul, calling me to wake each dawn and endure each dusk - just another night for the blues to bestow the bearable lightness of being.

“Nobody is perfect. Don’t feel bad, you know?” says the Russian well frequented with Ronnie Scott’s in the wild West End of London. Whispers of Harlem and sepia scorched photos of women in bikinis are passed in transience. A local Parisian. The antiquated man one might ignore. The young lady moves when spoken to, disconcerted by the gender divide or perhaps disillusioned by real time; people from the past not living in a perpetual online present. She resides in this illusory Instagram, whilst he dwells in nebulous nostalgia.

Gin fuels the second half - yearning for the arrival of Lester Young, Billie Holiday, and Charlie Parker, of whom are yet to denounce their demons in daylight. The sax summons these souls from bygone days to a space where alcohol pays for poetic precision. Hearts injected with heroin. Arms stabbed due to an insatiable appetite for excitement; a dangerous delirium.

Milking around Montmartre district, upon lipstick stained streets, an aspiring writer wonders at the rouge windmill poking out from behind the busy boulevard De Clichy. Autumnal leaves dance dramatically as the curtain closes and winter awaits - stealing the show and the chaperones - replacing them with shimmers of quartz encrusted ice. Grimbergen glitters golden hues from 1128, transporting her back to Epinal 2017 - curled up on a cushion aside the ochre house’s log burner, scorching her stretched skin with a Belgium beer in hand. Pear caresses cardamom in a bold and embracing manner at the Moulin Rouge - a debauched drink, daubed in indelible sensuality. 

Can a heat lamp cure lethargy in a campaign for comfort after a sunny day in Paris? She nods. Pays the bill. And wanders out into the starry night.