Parisian windows

The gauze curtain danced in the early morning breeze, not a like frantic rock and roll, nor a sweeping tango, but like a quiet, dignified waltz. From my bed I could see the closed shutters on the building across rue August Blanche under the red tile roof and the cylindrical chimney stacks. The shutters did not mute a newborn’s cry or the sound of a piano playing.

The night before the sounds were very different coming through the window. Marina, our 4-star guy guest and I were tired from tromping around the Latin Quarter and Montmarte despite a restful picnic at the feet of Charlemagne’s statue in front of Notre Dame.

France was playing Brazil and our guy guest had fled to the nearest bar with a wide screen television while we watched a movie. We could follow the game as cheers and screams drifted in the window. Just to make sure we checked the BBC web site who updated the results every two minutes of this World Cup game.

There was no mistaking the “Nous gagnons” followed by screams of joy, honking horns and laughter.

The window transmitted very different sounds in the few hours between the game and early morning. Both told their own stories.