It’s trite to say, but I don’t care: I want to go to there. The last cultural thing I did in St. Louis before I left for college – early on a Saturday morning, after I’d stayed up all night, packing – was to go to an exhibit of environments at the St. Louis Art Museum. I think this would always be my cup of tea, but because of that bleary, edgy visit to that exhibit, things like this will always transport me that much more.
My last night in Paris, I had dinner at Laduree. It was more expensive than was prudent, but it was my last night, we ended up on the Champs-Élysées, and hey, there was this incredibly beautiful and famous place. The macaron shop was closed; we had pricy dinner instead. Green pea creme brulee? Bring it. Dessert and macaron courses? Absolutely.
Anyway. It was a fine night and a surprisingly excellent bit of punctuation for my weekish there.
Why am I telling you this? Because I just read this and have curiously mixed feelings. More so than when I’m in New York and pass by Caffe Vita or Beecher’s or Via Tribunali and wonder what location really is anymore. Someday I will be more stationary and will be grateful for these outposts; for now, I am mobile, and they give me funny feelings.
My aspirational indie movie alter ego is a glassblower, has perfectly dyed purple hair that never shows roots, and lives in some kind of fantastic abandoned space, like this one.