The streets are fields that never die

You and me and the English sun. I wanted to leave England, its summer was suffocating. Our little flat without air conditioning, though I do admit, Steven made amazing mojitos. Those were amazing nights, ones that I will never forget.

Do you remember the breeze of that morning in June? I remember the faint green of the trees; the world was still asleep. But I had your hand, and I felt like I was flying.

Do you remember?

You and me ant the sun of Marseille. The streets were boiling, the sea, the sea was more blue than any sea that I had ever seen; I felt I could lie on that beach and disappear in the sunset.

You and me and the fields of Barjols. The valley of the tortoises – with Lupo, the black dog who could never get enough of my legs – and the forests, the forests were hilly, with rivers and actual waterfalls, and I felt I could swim in that aquamarine river up to eternity.

You and me and the wind of Avignon. The pope’s palace – remember that brilliant sunset, smoking next to the carrousel, having hitchhiked all day, and that bridge, which we could not afford to go on to, so we made our own bridge beside it, and the bread with the Brazilians in Raoul’s tiny tiny apartment – he had to sleep in the kitchen, and I felt as though you and I could live in a small Avignonese flat somewhere in the olden days, possibly the in the Renaissance.

You and me and the hills of Lyon. The riverbank, filled with songs, the ice creams – that was our only meal that day, remember – and the little girl, red dress, feeding the pigeons, her father taking pictures; the dogs in our hosts’ flat, the first dogs that loved me. And I felt like I could walk the streets of Lyon like a lady with the dog, very graceful and elegant, you laughed, said I couldn’t handle the heat. I probably couldn’t.

You and me and finally, Paris. I was ill, remember. My head was spinning in the museums – though possibly that worked with the avant-garde in Pompidou, and it was too hot, there were too many people, it wasn’t my Paris, but then we got the wine, and you, me and Lucien, we talked the night away of the riverbank; the people around us were dancing, dancing, kissing, kissing, and I felt, I felt alive.

You and me and the miles. Never-ending distances. The wind and the sun in our faces.

Let me keep this. Do you remember?

Let me keep this.