* THE PEWS OF PARIS *

An excerpt from a letter written this evening, concerning 'OUFF' Ouff! The nasty quality of air inside of the Paris metro is beyond imagination at times. Would a swim inside the intestines of a decomposing rat be more inviting? That’s a close call perhaps. But take a sniff and I think you might agree. Yes! Years ago I recall that some of my stops in India were remarkably gaseous too. But noooo. These days, in poodle town, the parfum of piss and puke pervades far beyond poetic consideration. I don’t believe that even Edith Piaf would be inspired to write a song about it. And today, if she dared to trill her pipes down there, under yesteryears pavée, for only ten seconds, she would certainly have that to regret. Indeed, the allure of taking the metro still drives a certain character - the kind with suicidal ideations no doubt. Apart from them, it offers its more stable day trippers and those forgotten souls, transients who seem to have taken-up permanent residence only twenty feet from the third rail, the type of odeous belly one might read about in futuristic sci-fi thrillers. But who needs to read about it when you can purchase a ticket to inhale the experience, en vraie? Okay, you’re probably asking yourself, 'Why hasn’t he considered bus transportation?' Well, 'he' has. For city outings, I have also considered sporting a ten pack of barf bags along with my last will and testament. It’s that awful. Look, time is not only money it is all that we have.

The notion of having to pace around a bus stop for typically thirty minutes - one can never be certain in France as the Swiss and time itself are typically scorned at - in anticipation of a sardine wagon, stuffed with Betty Boop and Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs t-shirt wearing tourists, quickly slings my imagination the other way, to more grounded options, like hoofing it. If I do and if I’m lucky, I’ll end-up with summer sweat on my brow but in the cool of a chapel or the Notre Dame Cathedral. At least there, one can pray in god’s pew. That would seem to be the better way to go, right? Instead, however, I usually opt to save my sole and toes in a more soldierly way by descending into the putrid petri dish of gay Parigi. Admittedly, it has been my regular choice. I own up to that responsibility and in truth, contrary to my earlier statement, I am not so confident the conditions of today’s  metro would cause 'The Little Sparrow' to chirp a single note of regret, still.