Discordant Melodies

My legs are aching but adrenalin pushes me forwards. I am afire, burning up in my overworked core. I fumble one-handed with my zip, letting cool wind in. My hand is back on the handlebar just in time to swerve around a taxi dropping off tourists with enormous suitcases. I shake my fist though I’m not angry; in fact, I’m exhilarated. I see an amber light ahead soon to be red, so I pump my legs harder. I sail through the changing light and relish the icy winter wind buffeting my skin. Buses honk me, cars ignore me and Paris’ Christmas lights sparkle under a layer of grime as I make my way down Boulevarde Saint Michel in the already dusky 4pm light.

I scoot up past Centre Pompidou, ring-a-ding-dinging tourists who are oblivious of all around them, including the grasping paws of Parisian pick pockets. When I’m almost slowed to walking pace they finally jump out of the way, exclaiming as though I’ve come from nowhere. I continue on, bumping along the cobblestones on my eternally bruised backside.

Beating the lights again, I glide down rue Chateau d’Eau, a street of hair salons, passing crowds of Maghrebins who hoot at me: vite! I race through the gutter, awash with shampoo and discarded locks of curly hair, before swerving up to the bike share station. Gasping for breath, I check my watch. 13 minutes. A new record.

I round the corner to the supermarket. Ten minutes later I emerge to find a commotion in the now crowded street. Two homeless men are shouting at each other- one is crying, tears punctuated by obscenities. The other stumbles drunkenly with blood dripping from his nose. The police appear and suddenly I’m being questioned as a witness. The only thing I have to tell the policier is my grocery list. He assures me it could be relevant, writing it down and even asking me how many apples I’ve bought.

Escaping into the boulangerie, I buy patisseries I should resist. I walk past the post office and give my change to the Roma lady begging there. As usual, she asks for some bread so I rip the end off my baguette and she gives me a toothless grin. I walk down my street already bustling with the restaurant crowd, nodding my head to the Turkish man in the kebab shop. Two security codes, five flights of stairs and one good old fashioned key-lock later, I collapse on the couch my legs burning afresh from the grocery laden climb.

‘Paris, every day is memorable and today you have not failed to deliver,’ I think as I slather a hunk of brie on my baguette.