Paris works.
Dogs do still shit on the footpaths. But not
as rampantly as detractors will have you believe.
Mostly they discreetly poop in soil at the base of trees.
My boots and I came through scot(tie)-free.
Traffic is nuts. Parking even nuttier.
But they manage it, the Parisians. Gloriously.
Almost symphonically. Nudging and swerving.
Even clipping or scraping, but sans-fussedly.
Pushbikes, parping motor scooters,
motor bikes, motor trikes - with two front wheels -
the better to ease over cobblestones,
and cars and vans, all enter the fray and play.
Cafes and restaurants seem to just
arrive, fully formed, on footpaths, behind glass
and out front, swabbed glass-topped round tables,
precede bi-coloured, obedient, road-facing chairs.
Tendered bonjours each morning from neighbours,
tiny lift-sharers, shopkeepers, male and female,
are sincere and joyous sounding. And to be bon soired
in the evening by the French is to accept... enchantment.
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