Coffee, cigarettes and croissants, Parisian petit-dejeuner. Pickpockets not
optional but complimentary. You won’t see them coming until you get home

and realize your underwear is missing. I meet a curator from a museum in
Venezuela, she is here for a world conference on what to do with the

evolution and possible demise of a certain art form. I meet a young Dutch
girl and we spend many nights sipping licorice tea all
bundled up in H&M sweaters ranting about politics, sparkling by sunsets in

Chinese traiteurs moaning and grieving about lost love and how much we
adore an English chef who keeps serving us dessert and croutons he made

from pain tradition on top of Caesar salads drowned in melted grilled goat’s cheese;
a boy from Brazil who came here for two days from Barcelona and ended up

staying for three years sitting with me at night in front of the Eiffel Tower watching
it glitter and talking…