Paris does not exist. I know for a fact.
My good friend, Amandine, who never lies, and lived there, told me that Paris is horrible, uncomfortable, grey, and that people are not happy.
In that city of which I speak, people are late to work, live outside, everything is expensive and the shows are always booked.
But I know there's another place they call the city of light, that one that belongs to Hopscotch, to the bohemian, that one of the Impressionists, where the surrealism lived, that one of Nouvelle Vague, that where photography was presented, where you find the coffees and croissants, the revolutionary city, the cliche, that of the dreamer. That one, we know very well, we know all its corners. We had a walk there, we saw Montmartre without seeing the tourists, we stayed in a penthouse overlooking the Eiffel Tower. We lived there, we were happy there, with much charme. And we were awakened. But you always want to return.
My good friend, Amandine, who never lies, and lived there, told me that Paris is horrible, uncomfortable, grey, and that people are not happy.
In that city of which I speak, people are late to work, live outside, everything is expensive and the shows are always booked.
But I know there's another place they call the city of light, that one that belongs to Hopscotch, to the bohemian, that one of the Impressionists, where the surrealism lived, that one of Nouvelle Vague, that where photography was presented, where you find the coffees and croissants, the revolutionary city, the cliche, that of the dreamer. That one, we know very well, we know all its corners. We had a walk there, we saw Montmartre without seeing the tourists, we stayed in a penthouse overlooking the Eiffel Tower. We lived there, we were happy there, with much charme. And we were awakened. But you always want to return.
We go to that city, that one that those who have not lived there, call Paris.
We go for a few days, to dream, to find allure.
The other we will not visit. Because Paris does not exist.
París no existe. Lo sé de buena tinta.
The other we will not visit. Because Paris does not exist.
París no existe. Lo sé de buena tinta.
Mi buena amiga Amandine, que nunca me miente, y que ha vivido allí, me dice que París es horrible, incómoda, gris, y que la gente no está feliz.
En esa ciudad de la que me habla, la gente llega tarde a trabajar, vive en las afueras, todo es caro y los espectáculos siempre están reservados.
Pero sé que hay otro lugar, la que llaman ciudad de la luz, la de Rayuela, la del bohemio, la de los impresionistas, la del surrealismo, la de la Nouvelle Vague, esa en la que se habló por primera vez de fotografía, la de los cafés y los croissants, la revolucionaria, la del cliché, la del soñador. Esa la conocemos muy bien todos, conocemos sus esquinas, la hemos paseado, hemos visto Montmartre sin apreciar a los turistas, hemos dormido en un ático con vistas a la Tour Eiffel, hemos vivido allí, hemos sido felices allí, con mucho charme y nos hemos despertado. Pero siempre queremos volver. A esa ciudad, que los que no hemos vivido allí, llamamos París, iremos unos días, a soñar, a buscar allure.
A la otra no iremos. Porque París no existe.
4 comentarios:
estoy deseando volver a ese París...
Yo también quiero volver,aunque sea a la que no existe.
J.de V.
Existe y si vas en invierno, hace un frío que yo no he conocido en ningún otro lugar, quizás por eso sé que existe.
:D Totalmente de acuerdo, eso pasa con la mitad de los lugares y ciudades. La globalización es lo que tiene...
Un 10 al texto y a la reflexión!
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