I want to be your bootlegger, want to mix you up something strange.

So... where was I?

Paris is tragically romantic. Tonight I counted six couples kissing, three couples fighting, and one guy sitting on the floor of the phone booth, yelling what I can only assume were french swear words. Girls wrap themselves in their boyfriends on the metro, couples share cigarettes outside of cafés, guys write in moleskine notebooks in three languages about love found and lost.

All of this (poetically) in view of the Eiffel Tower, the most common structure used to indicate love.

The tragedy does not come from love lost and found though, or the constant reminder that if you are not in love in Paris, you should be, or if you are in love, perhaps you can be more in love... the tragedy, to me, comes from the poor souls who have forgotten how loveable, eccentric and beautiful this place is.

For example, two nights ago, Ariane and her friend Guillaume and I drank a pint in a bar called "Some Girls" without a girl in sight... instead there were two Christmas Story burlesque lamps and leopard print cushions. Or a couple days ago when I saw a dog alone in a meat shop, looking with lust at his surroundings.

Herman Dune loved it here too. They played a sweet little show in a sweaty music hall at a trendy radio showcase. After every song, David (the singer) would say "Merci beaucoup" and smile for a moment.

Today, I ate lots of cheese on bread and avocado, had Sushi with Yanne, Jean and Ariane, ate a little macaron from Pierre Hermé (a macaron is not a macaroon. remember this and your life will get better, especially if you get the chance to have one.) and asked symbolic questions to the friends of Ariane.

And we saw Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band who played with vim and vigor and strummed with passion. I love his lyrics and I love good harmony and I love when a singer shakes with the power of what they are saying, which Conor does. I was also glad he got a haircut.

I think I have had a bit of alcohol every day since I have gotten here. A beer at least. I don't think this is a bad thing, either... but I certainly won't continue this practice. Paris is a vacation. Norwich will have more direction.

My head is clear currently. Ariane's neighbors have their television loud and Ariane is about to go to sleep. I have a story I would like to write and blank postcards to fill. And cheese to eat. And life to love.

My goodness, do I have myself a life to love.