I live in the heart of Paris. There is much to observe from this privileged position. This perch is my window upon a new world, my observatory. There exists just enough stimulation below to keep my curious mind occupied with imagined stories of the many passing lives. Most often I notice tourists with detailed maps of the Marais, engaged in a historic walk or a gallery crawl, completely unaware that they are being observed through eagle eyes. Very often a business man will ride by on his bicycle, or briskly walk the length of the street, eager to arrive home to the squeals of small children and an eagerly anticipatory wife. Occasionally one of the bypassers will glance skywards and find me, looking quite anxious that I may be able not only to see them but in fact read their minds. Can I? No, they are superficially mine only for a moment, the length of the street within my view. Our interaction, if any, is brief. Most of all I search for one particular smiling face.
It is close to 7pm and I can hear the melodies of an ambitious pianist floating through the late summer air. This is my soundtrack, mixed with varied conversations of which I understand very little, an occasional motor bike passing by and the constant beat of a heel belonging to an elegant French woman enroute to a rendezvous. The music intensifies and a door slams in the distance, accompanied by distant laughter. Is this not the setting of a film? The very film of my Parisian life. Hence I am no longer the observer but the star, waiting to enter stage left. The music softens. He has arrived. The performance begins.
