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The sun sets on Montmartre; the sun sets on the world.

Amélie is a film of consequence in my house so we passed the sights. For those familiar with the film, the telephone boxes are gone, if ever really there, and there are no blue arrows to follow.

And so to her workplace. Again, similar and dissimilar. Everyone is very excited about the gnome in the toilets; actually, everybody’s excited in general. The lights are neon in the style of a 50s diner. But the people next to us speak French and wear glasses with heavy frames, so there’s an authenticity about it all, and the bar is where it ought to be. Keeping it film-pristine (when it was assuredly set-dressed anyway) is unrealistic… but, still.

Our own temporary neighbourhood had the typical charm. Is there anything finer than a roof of charcoal tiles?

More of me, looking suspicious with a drink. This is the sweetest, sweetest street nearby, full of painfully quaint butchers and bakers and delicatessens and patisseries, and those little bistros where the seats all face outwards.

Dusk fades, at last. Some backpacker intuition found a cheat to save on entrance at a certain gallery; we went. By that stage, though, we were exhausted past the point of sense and went in, looked at the Mona Lisa (tried to), tried to see Napoleon’s heavenly apartments, got lost, got stroppy, left. I think it’s better to be outside, and to see this.

One day I’ll rent a bike and pass through the streets at midnight, silent but for the hiss of spinning tires. Until then.



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