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<h1 class="p-name entry-title post--title" itemprop="headline">From Here We Go Sublime</h1>
<time class="dt-published published dt-updated post--date" datetime="2011-05-29T02:35:00" itemprop="datePublished">May <span>29, 2011</span></time>
<p class="p-author author hide" itemprop="author"><span class="byline-author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></span></p>
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<span class="p-region">Paris</span>, <a class="p-country-name country-name" href="/jrnl/france/" title="travel writing from France">France</a>
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<p><span class="drop">J</span>ust arrived Dullles-Reykjavik-Paris, just arrived, 26-hour trip, no sleep. I see things. I see a grizzly looking Spaniard selling old railway lanterns at the flea market, I see muslim men playing basketball in skull caps, I see a Michael Faraday experiment with glowing orange bulbs and copper wires enclosed in glass that turns out to be just an elevator. I see a stout Frenchwoman closing the gates of Pere Lachaise, no more dead, we've had enough of you.</p>
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<p>I see the cars on boulevard de Ménilmontant, I see the people at the cafes, from the cafes, have a seat, have a beer, have a moment to think, we could have this moment whenever we stop caring, giving a little bit less of shit about the abstract, a little bit more about the actual. Trade your paper tickets for food and know that you came out ahead, know that that the food is the point.</p>
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<p>I smell fresh bread, the warm fecund of cheese, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke on the street. I hear the whine of mopeds, distinct and distant from the rushing wind of passing cars, or the roar of buses blasting by this park bench.</p>
<p>I feel the subway rumble the bench beneath me, I feel the tremble of the aircraft in pockets of turbulence, the tremor of the wing jolts you out of sleep. I feel the flutter of pigeon wings looking for a roost. I feel the present, I feel the past, I don't feel the future. I feel better. </p>
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