j'aime mon quartier, ils ramassent
From my apartment window, I can face southward and see the arches that shoulder La Promenade Plantée, and if I peer north on any Saturday afternoon, I can almost always gape at the protesters decrying whatever particular injustice has gotten them out of bed on a Saturday morning (these things usually take off in the morning from Place da la République, long before I've groggily smacked "café" on our coffee machine.)
I live in the 12th arrondissement, in the quartier Aligre. The first time we turned onto our street, I fell instantly in love with all of it - the colorful, 18th century hearkening storefronts, the multitude of fun and good restaurants and bars, and that it is the hub of Paris' woodworking guild. I'd found a street I could love to walk up, down, and home on.
It wasn't until walking home from République this afternoon, however, that I realized the true source of my immediate affinity to our neighborhood. Over and over again, whether ambling down Rue Amelot, cutting over to Rue Saint-Sabin, avoiding the mass of teenagers on Rue de Lappe, or noticing some new shops on Rue Keller, I came frighteningly close to stepping in piles of, or smears of, or unsympathetic pellets of dog turd. At one point, I was even dragged out of contemplating the scissor switch gait of a teenager in front of me when he cried out, "Agh! J'ai marché dedans!" followed by snickering from his skinny friends as he scraped his crappy Converse along the sidewalk.
And then, reprieve; almost as soon as I'd traversed the Rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine, the street that separates the 11th from the 12th, the ubiquitous brown terror had remarkably diminished.
Now, I live in Paris, reigning world capital of the crotte de chien. But, as someone once described as "a fastidious little thing," resigning myself to the reality that obliges me to appear deferential when I walk has been no small feat. In fact, it has required the nimbleness of Fred Astaire and a level of tolerance that would challenge... God. And even God might smite some poor unsuspecting non-curber eventually.
Discover Georges Brassens!
I live in the 12th arrondissement, in the quartier Aligre. The first time we turned onto our street, I fell instantly in love with all of it - the colorful, 18th century hearkening storefronts, the multitude of fun and good restaurants and bars, and that it is the hub of Paris' woodworking guild. I'd found a street I could love to walk up, down, and home on.
It wasn't until walking home from République this afternoon, however, that I realized the true source of my immediate affinity to our neighborhood. Over and over again, whether ambling down Rue Amelot, cutting over to Rue Saint-Sabin, avoiding the mass of teenagers on Rue de Lappe, or noticing some new shops on Rue Keller, I came frighteningly close to stepping in piles of, or smears of, or unsympathetic pellets of dog turd. At one point, I was even dragged out of contemplating the scissor switch gait of a teenager in front of me when he cried out, "Agh! J'ai marché dedans!" followed by snickering from his skinny friends as he scraped his crappy Converse along the sidewalk.
And then, reprieve; almost as soon as I'd traversed the Rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine, the street that separates the 11th from the 12th, the ubiquitous brown terror had remarkably diminished.
Now, I live in Paris, reigning world capital of the crotte de chien. But, as someone once described as "a fastidious little thing," resigning myself to the reality that obliges me to appear deferential when I walk has been no small feat. In fact, it has required the nimbleness of Fred Astaire and a level of tolerance that would challenge... God. And even God might smite some poor unsuspecting non-curber eventually.
Discover Georges Brassens!
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