“He told us the story once, twice, many times – it is a story he likes – of how he knew in an instant that he would follow her.
To Rome, Vienna, Bahia, London, Tokyo, New York, the Caribbean. She picked the wild destinations. They went and were young together. He picked the last stop of every trip: Paris, always always Paris. They went and were together.
They went and loved. They dined on cheese and wine and bread and chocolate. They walked. Wandered the quiet streets with her on his arm, then they went home and lived and lived well until their next adventure.”
– On his Arm, on the 30th of August 2019
Eulogy for a flâneur.
The French say it better: Tu me manques. You are missing from me. The oxygen machine has been unplugged. A flâneur has gone missing.
Flâneur: a “gentleman stroller of city streets,” who strolled them all, with her on his arm, from Saint Louis to Paris, passing through Dubrovnik, Split, Podgorica, Capri, Sicily, Naples, Venice, Florence, Rome, Genoa, Monte Carlo, Juan Les Pins, Antibes, Cannes, Valuris…
He walked and saw and loved—and cooked and wrote and read and sang and danced, and always showed up with roses and strawberries and mandarins—and then couldn’t walk or breathe, but now,
the machine has been unplugged. A flâneur is missing. Walking on air. “You can breathe now.”
There are no monuments for flâneurs. There is no grave in his name. The sidewalk. Every single sidewalk in Paris belongs to him.
Eulogy for a flâneur, in his words:
“Don’t forget your phone Do you have your phone? Do you have your water? Don’t forget your water. Look both ways before you cross the street. Drive carefully. Let me know when you arrive.”
Let me know when you arrive.
“That dead animal in the road is just old newspapers. Don’t take any wooden nickels. Remember I love you.”
I love you. I love you. Every sidewalk sings I love you. The destiny of every flâneur is to fall in love with life, fall into it and vanish. Tu me manques. Every sidewalk.