Ah Paris!

I’ve always wanted to live in Paris. I fell in love with the city on my first visit. It was old, charming and just different from my suburban New Jersey abode. There was this notion that Paris was full of love. I received a love pat from some Parisian men at the metro station, smack dead on my ass. My girlfriend and I started laughing. How affectionate they are over here we thought to ourselves. At home we’d probably be looking for the nearest police officer.

So I became fluent in French, taking this language since I was 10. I thought I was French for a while and anytime I’d come across a Senegalese person or someone else from a West African francophone I would practice on them. I was good. I would impress everyone around me with my accent, my comprehension and my fortitude. After all I was preparing for my life in France with some handsome romantic.

We would go to the store and pick up a loaf of fresh bread every day. My feet would get tired from walking on cobble stone streets and he would pick me up the rest of the way home. On the weekends he’d watch me sing at the jazz club, and complain about all the smoke in the place.
But this is not the life I lead. Somewhere along my path I ended up down a very different road. My streets are potholed muddy lanes stained with the blood of my ancestors.