1. No, I have been missing all these months in Paris. I've been lost elsewhere. Within myself, most of the time. Although I lost some time in Paris.
2. Maybe it does not matter where you are. Alberto Manguel says in the foreword to Hotel Nomad Cees Nooteboom is a nomad who is never anywhere. The truth is that wherever you go one, it only matters what you have brought with them. The same day Paris Sarajevo Delhi.
3. The fact is that I lost some time in Paris. Or maybe it was to Paris intending to lose, but not finished completely miss. I walked with delight by the Rue de Rivoli, the Boulevard Raspail and Boulevard Montparnasse until I wore the meniscus as well as the soles of the shoes. I knew, of course, would not find anything that had not brought in the backpack, but find very reassuring knowing that one is not likely to find anything.
4. It is inevitable to find the point where it starts Rayuela: "Would I find La Maga? So many times I had enough peek, coming down the Rue de Seine, the arc gives the Quai de Conti, and just light and olive ash that floats from the river let me out shapes, and her slim figure was made in the Pont des Arts .... " I stand there and, like Horacio Oliveira, do I find La Maga. Fortunately, I think, because I do not look for it. I only see urchin dozen Germans, Dutch, English and Americans who drink beer bottles sitting on the boards of the Pont des Arts, indifferent to light and olive ash rising from the river. "
5. The next morning I work in tourism necrophiliac in Montparnasse Cemetery. I give a few laps until I find the place where he is buried alongside Julio Cortázar Carol Dunlop. There are some offerings, pieces of paper with notes of appreciation, marbles, flowers, pencils. But there is not a single cat. Maybe that would be what most would have liked to Cortázar. A cat purring constantly on his tombstone.
6. Activity in the Café de Flore and sit on a table. I order a coffee and my job is to look at the furniture. Banks with red trim and mirrors everywhere. The site is nothing special, apart from how easy it is mystified. I try to listen to the voices of Sartre, Beauvoir and Camus echoing against the walls, but only listen to two Japanese consulting his Lonely Planet in the next table. On mine, the ticket reminds me € 6 for my coffee.
7. Places to talk about bars, I read in Paris not just never Vila-Matas the clash that took Ernest Hemingway and Andre Malraux during the liberation of Paris. Legend has it that Hemingway was ahead a few hours at the entrance of the allies in Paris and released the Ritz bar. When he arrived with his regular troops Malraux, Hemingway and his hours had already celebrating his victory with champagne and cognac. And before the French disdain for the American, one of the faithful followers of the second approached him and asked, "Can we shoot this asshole?". If it was Hemingway
(yet) we would have saved more temperamental at once two things as ugly as a politician Gaullist and a lousy writer of novels.
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