It seems like it should be the thing of stories, a gloomy day in paris, the rain tragically falling on all the young lovers as they rush through the streets carrying bags of fresh pastries and breads. Climbing stairs in dripping clothes only to burst into the tiny apartments with laughter on there lips as they shed all there clothing in a desperate attempt to get warm and dry.
The bread filling the small spaces with the smells of a home that the tiny kitchen would never be able to make.
The reality is wet cloths and soggy breads. grumpy moods and sullen stares. Paris in the rain is not nearly romantics as they say. I should know, I’m there.
Today it decided to rain and I figure what better time to catch up on my two favorite past times? a little reading and writing.
Truth be told I think part of me believed in the magic of Paris, that the minute we got here I would have some revelation and would be able to write more then I have in years, the truth is the writers block, or wedge more like it, still has a firm grasp on me.
How is it that even in a city that is so beautiful the words don’t flow like they once did? Famous authors have traveled this streets, ones famous for their words and wit not simply sensationalism, and yet for me – nothing.
Maybe in time, i have a little less then a week left, and maybe within that time i will find my words again. till then there is always Paris in the rain…