For some reason the streets here don't stay with me lie they did in Paris. I can't remember any of the goddamn names. For example, Guada's street is... Carlos San Ruiz? Maybe? That's probably wrong, and really, that's the only street I can think of. [it's Carlos Antonio Lopez actually]
And still, here in Buenos Aires, three years later, I can still list off a handful of Parisian streets off the top of my head. Rue Grenlle, Rue Didot, Rue d'Alesia, etc... and of course Rue Mahbourg. That old top floor flat and the tiny windows. Strange. Maybe it's something that only comes in retrospect.
They're playing French music here in Helena's. In Palermo Soho, and old crooning big band jazz too. Louis Armstrong and dear Billie with the crackle on the trickle. What warmth it brings to me. It's different here. The winter's not so cold, and the sex is on a well made platter with baby oil massages.
I'm not sad here like I was in Paris. I'm impatient. I write more about men and less about women. And I take the bus not the metro here. Did they even have buses in Paris? I can't remember. I need to remember more streets here.
I need to listen to more old jazz and come back to Helena's in Palermo. Por favor.
I love writing here.
I love the big window with
The sun shining through.
