Vin Jaune

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We got the old dusty bottles of spirits and wine, a few dozen oysters, butter and baguettes. We drank and ate our fill in the a park that was famous for something… I’m not a very good traveler. It was a lovely enough spot on a lovely enough day to be sitting about eating oysters, drinking ‘Vin Jaune’ that was opened with a stiletto . The dismembered cork was floated in the bottle. Fun.

We then set off down a few alleys, past an erotic bakery, through more squares and streets I cannot remember the names of. We were looking for a toilet.

One busker did a pretty good Jim Morrison impression, another was told to move on by the Police. The crowd boo-ed and jeered. People had been holding protests about the excessive police presence in the city the day before.  They were certainly omnipresent. Dressed in their riot gear and arriving everywhere in armoured vehicles. The Parisians know how to protest for their rights. It’s engrained in their culture. Wit more civility now maybe…less beheadings and all that.



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We went out for breakfast. Through the market we sampled the produce and grabbed a few things. We stopped a glass of beer, sitting out in the morning sun. It was just after 9am and it felt like Spring. It felt good. An old man hand-cranked a mechanical organ with one hand as he fed it music with the other. The yellowed creased cardboard tablature dropped to a shelf, folding itself into a neat stack. The music looked older than both the man and machine.