Spring has made an appearance and the people on my street are profiting of the nice sunshine.
Walking home just now I saw my guardian on the rue Saint Maur. He's a helpful, if stoic man named Milo (pronounced Mee-lo) who lives with his wife in the courtyard of my building. Milo was holding a package for me at his home, and he has noticed that I returned late every night this weekend, otherwise he would have given it to me earlier.
As I mounted my own street, the rue Sainte-Marthe, I saw two backpacked kids leaning around the corner, waiting to scare their approaching friend (who was bopping down the street in earphones), a man wearing a corduroy jacket and a professional camera, the young male sculptor who has a tiny work studio with his apron-wearing girl friend and white cat (I believe they give lessons, if anyone is interested), the gentleman who runs the record store Le Calif de Belleville, an African woman balancing a basket on her head, a gang of folks barbecuing sausages on the curb, a turban-wearing woman in painters’ coveralls drinking beer, a beggar, an Asian couple carrying groceries, four policemen on bicycles, a half-dozen teenage boys slouching on the Place Sainte-Marthe, and too many pigeons to count.
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