Homesick

The street is quiet. No tourists, no buses. Only the rising sun is there to greet me as I walk along the Paris streets, in a place devoid of postcard shops and Kodak moments. A couple lingers by their door, whispering goodnight with hugs and kisses. A one legged pigeon hobbles out of my way. For being so handicapped he is still quite fat.

The stores are closed at so early a time, but the boulongerie is just opening. The aroma of fresh croissants and chocolate bread wafts down the street, banishing the smell of night from the cracks and ledges.

Another man is already there when I arrive at the bakery. Hello, the lady behind the counter says. Would you like your usual? Yes he would, and he receives his still steaming baguette. The top is off and eaten before he steps out of the door.

The traffic has started to swell, and already the distant sound of a siren echos down the ancient Parisian alleyways to my room. I munch on my breakfast and write, one arm relaxed over the window banister as people pass by under me. My writing is furious and urgent. In an hour I will be returning to New Jersey, USA, land of sprawling suburbia and choking industry. Everything I can think of I jam into paper. It will be my connection to the place that I, in only a week, have decided to call home.