Thursday, August 22, 2013

Dia Luna

Let's meet at a dirty lil sangria bar. Her words not mine.  After eating wine-drenched orange peels, I stopped at Cafe Saint Germain for a plate of moules frites. The briny taste of the mussels balanced by the salty pomme de terre with dijon hints to burn away the sea.  The cup of Sauvignon washed it all away.  After escargot and moules, I am not sure what would constitute an unkosher trifecta; perhaps a plate of jambon.

I couldn't begin to explain the bus ride home. A girl was crying, shedding tears down her cheeks. I offered as much comfort as could to a problem not my own, in a language not my own. A fellow in a wheelchair with her said it was okay, and I had to let it go.  The Eiffel Tower hit its strobe effect, and we all smiled subtly.

Hoy dia luna, dia pena. Hoy me levanto sin razon. Hoy me levanto y no quiero. Hoy dia luna, da muero.   Arriba la luna, ohea.
-Manu Chao 

No comments: