GOODBYE

Well guys, this is it.

After tonight I don't think I will be posting anymore. Unless I think of something crucial about this trip that you might like to know. But I'm trying to reach conclusions right now.

Here it is 12:39 am, my last night in Paris which actually means Pontault-Combault. Goodbye my Portuguese suburb. I'll miss your blaring rap and your pride of the motherland. Tomorrow morning I will leave you and the rest of France at 7:00. I will eat my peach yogurt in the car and I will drag my luggage through terminal 1 and I will fly away, and time will repeat itself.

Every time I leave somewhere I also see the final scenes of the other places I've left, and every time I say goodbye I cry again on the shoulders of friends I have left before.

Again and again.

I can't talk about leaving Paris without talking about leaving in general.

Transition is my catalyst for growth; it's the thing I dread and yet, oddly enough, depend upon for familiarity. I have wanted to belong somewhere and to the people there, and I have-- many times-- and I have lost them. The pattern fits me like a glove, but one that I never asked for. I used to resent that, but I think finally it has been a long time and it's my life and it's okay that way. It's a gift I didn't expect.

God allows everything in order that we can find him somehow. All things for the good of those who love him. And ultimate goodness is only in God. In all the transience of my life and all the people I have known, the isolation after leaving them and the apathy towards relationships after that, I have learned that God is still good.

I have learned that the only reason I hurt is because I'm losing love, it's because I need people and that is not a bad thing. God only wants us to love each other. It is how he loves us and how we love him also, and it is how we can see him even through this fractured world. There is beauty here in the way that we live. If we are willing.

I didn't have to come here for three months and then leave again. I have thought about that a lot this past week or so. I've thought that I could have avoided the whole thing for the sake of stability. But that's just me trying to lie to myself. The truth is, I have found stability here that affects all of my life. I have committed here even though I knew it was temporary, and it has been worth it, and this is the most relieving choice I've ever made in regard to transition. I've been working toward it for a while, I think.

Jesus once went through a lot of transition knowing full well that it wouldn't last and that everyone would fail him and that he would even have to die, and it was the greatest gesture of love possible. And I think the point in being a Christian is to follow his example as closely as possible, in order to know him as well as we can and to see him in everything.

How then, could these months not have been worth while? Who am I to hold back in the future?

So I'm sitting here on my bed, my last late night in the basement. There are a few bags sitting next to a scale on the floor. I have two unfinished goodbye cards on my desk. The walls are bare except for leftover glue-tack spots. This is such a familiar situation.

Tomorrow will be hard. I will cry probably, and I will watch Paris going by the windows and I will see a village, a road, a runway receding from view. Hug Katie and miss all the friends I've ever made. It will be an overload, but it will also be peaceful.

I never meant to get incredibly personal on this blog, but I think that to close with a good explanation of my time here it was necessary. And shoot-- I won't be blogging again. Goodbye readers.

Goodbye Paris. Thank you for everything.

LASTS

Maybe some of you remember Veronique from several posts ago. Well, this orange and black weave... it's hers.

(This is the class at Telegraphe, my last day ever).

And this is the class at Saint Denis, my last day ever. This is Mohomad.

CHERRIES AND OTHER THINGS

Outside our back office window next to the garage is a nice smallish cherry tree and it is full up with cherries. I pick them almost every day now and it is oh so nice. Especially since I have no other fruit just now.

This weekend there's a big meeting in our dining room/ living room for one of the OM branches. It has to do with teenagers or something and I plan on not being here, although it will end with a barbecue tonight and that is very temping to me. Free food in any form is tempting. Cherries; barbecues; the other day a pastor at one of the churches here offered us all these packs of ready-made fish soup and, yes, I did carry all of them home through the metro. I haven't tried them yet, though. They look a little suspicious. I could feel them sloshing around during the commute.

Today Sarah and I are going to the Centre Pompidou, which is a big contemporary art museum whose stairs are all on the outside of the building. I learned about it in my 9th grade French class with Madame Coffman the Wonder, and now I'm actually going. For some reason this is the most surprising thing to me yet.

We don't know how long it will take. Afterwards we are meeting Katie for coffee (she has no interest in Pompidou) and trying to stay out as much as possible. Meetings are a great repellant for us slackers in the basement.

Classes are coming along well. They are almost over for the semester, since most of the women taking them go back to their respective countries for the summer break. It's a transient time as far as teachers go-- one of the women who teaches has gone back America for a few months and her place is being filled by various other people on various days of the week. There are several very short term people staying in the house right now, and another group will arrive next week. It is only a matter of making room in the fridge and washing sheets more often, and watching Jane Austen with five to a couch.

WE TRAVEL NORTH

On Saturday we drove 10 hours. Katie, Sarah, me, and Katie's boyfriend Stephan. He drove, actually; the rest of us mostly slept.

It was a trip to Holland, north from Paris, through Belgium, and a lovely day. It's finally warm here. The countryside is covered in fields and clumps of forest and towns.
Have any of you seen Ever After? I assume you have. You should. We stopped in Ghent, as in the Baroness Rodmilla de Ghent, the wicked stepmother's hometown, and we wandered about looking at her old buildings covered in graffiti. What I have seen of Belgium looks more medieval than what I have seen of France, but also full of ugly industrial-looking apartment buildings.

Stephan was explaining to us in the car why French people always bash Belgians: They are in the European Union but have contributed nothing to the world except French fries. They speak Flemish. Their only famous landmark is the Pissing Statue (which unfortunately we didn't see).

The closer we drove to Amsterdam the more cars we saw loaded with people wearing orange. Friendly people, blowing horns out their windows and pumping their orange fists at us. The games are on, apparently, in Holland.

And Amsterdam is so beautiful:


The first thing I did when I woke up the next day was check if my school has an exchange program for Holland. They do. The houses are tall and skinny and surrounded by canals. The canals are overflowing with houseboats and smaller boats of happy weekenders getting sun and listening to music. I would not mind joining them someday. I could be a houseboater. What about the Mississippi?

Now, we did not count on staying in Amsterdam all afternoon, considering that it's rumored to be such a seedy city and has no major sights we had heard of. But it's actually quite nice. Sunny looking people on bicycles smoking free love.

Under the feet of a herd of tourists I found a map. I'm collecting trash here in Europe with some kind of art project in mind. It's a smelly endeavor, but probably worth it, especially nice when I find maps. On this particular one we found the ANNE FRANK HOUSE, which we didn't know was in Amsterdam but which gave us a decided purpose for the rest of the afternoon. I did a book report on Anne Frank when I was in seventh grade. (Who didn't, at some point, do a book report on her?) I remember trying very hard to make my poster look like a torn out and burned page of her diary, to make it seem authentic. Well the house was beyond authentic. They lived there. We in our very own living bodies crawled through the same space behind the bookshelf that they, the Franks, were taken through to Auschwitz. I saw her wall decorations. Then we drove all the long way home again across three countries and several decades to my own wall decorations. I have an explorer, a hot air balloon, my favorite people. She had the Dutch Royal family and girls holding puppies. She died in a concentration camp. And here I am. Who are we?

My only regrets about Holland are that 1) we didn't go to Corrie ten Boom's house, and 2) the tulips weren't blooming anymore. This only gives me reason to return.

COUNTDOWN

Well guys, it's down to two and a half weeks. Ever since there was one month left time has been going by fast.. I'm afraid I'll wake up tomorrow and have to pack up.

I count down for everything in life.
Days until the weekend: 0 (yay)
Months until school starts: 2 and 1/2
Years until school is over: 3, possibly 4
Hours until I have to wake up again: 9
Number of kiwis left in the cupboard: 5
Years until retirement: 47

But otherwise I have little use for numbers, and they are hostile toward me. Especially 9. I don't like 9 or 11 or 5, as they are all quite menacing.
And right now, this 2 and 1/2 weeks is slippery but neutral. I have never liked leaving, in fact, it fills me with loathing and sadness (and much gnashing of teeth). We could dwell on the effects of this for a while but I'll spare you.
My point is, tonight, that this time I'm eager to continue in life, however much I will miss Paris. I have given and taken as much as I am able, and soon it will be time to go, and that will be alright.

CURRY AGAIN

When I first got here I found a bag of chickpeas for relatively cheap, and thought I should buy them because my healthy mother uses them quite often. Since that purchase I've had a hard time remembering what exactly she cooks with chickpeas. I've experimented a few times. It hasn't been bad. About a month ago I cooked a pot of chickpeas and couldn't think of anything to use them on so I put them in the freezer and then moved them to the fridge this week, thinking some great idea would come to mind.

We like cheap food around here. My house mate, Katie, bought 25 kilos of potatoes off some farmer a few weeks ago for only 5 euros. Most of you reading this don't use kilos, so in case you have no conception of how much that is... over 50 pounds. She split them between herself and two other people and we STILL have a bucket of small potatoes in the cupboard which are determinedly putting out small creepy-looking fingers. My other housemate, Sarah, and I almost ate them for dinner last night, but decided they looked too much like fetuses. Disgusted, we ate toast.

Today, though, I was very bored about dinner time and struck upon a hopeful theory that anything can be curried. Anything. I had ultimate faith in this idea even though I've never tried to curry a single thing. Open Google. Curry recipe. Curry chickpeas. How convenient.
I made the sauce, opened my container of chickpeas, and was greeted by stench. OH NO. They were covered in small bubbles, pale and slimy. But, Oh well, I thought, We still have multitudes of potatoes.

I have to tell you though, now that the dishes are washed and I'm sitting here with a jar of Nutella, potatoes don't curry. Don't try it.

SOMETHING ABOUT PAINTS

Last week our field leader had this idea that I should illustrate the story at the end of the lesson by painting. Usually I have nothing to do with the story-telling; it has more to do with introducing new vocabulary and I tend to serve cookies as soon as it's over. But everyone who teaches classes agreed that they shouldn't waste the opportunity for the story to be painted-- I am leaving in a month, and then no one else will want to paint. It will be back to flannelgraphs for ever. All the flannelgraph backgrounds we use, incidentally, are the exact same ones I remember from Sunday school. Same movable pillars, same Sea of Galilee scene.
So last week I painted the story of the Miraculous Catch of Fish at one class location, and the Ascension of Jesus at another location, and in two weeks I'll do another one at the last location. Three paintings. I've never painted as a performance before so this is all quite new to me... should it be a literal illustration or just a nice painting of some people? Should I bow when it's over? I'm not sure that the ladies know what to think either, since mostly they just stare and then give me curious looks when I'm cleaning up; on the other hand, some of them just can't tell me enough how pretty the colors are.
The kids love it. It seems like they would like to paint also, and that makes me like the kids more. Even if we can't paint together.
I am enjoying the paints, too. I didn't bring any with me and hadn't meant to buy any while here. But when they were first dropped off at the house for me to test, I was almost in heaven to squeeze them out and spread them around a canvas. Colors! I forgot how much I love you. My soul is happy because of this.

FRIDAY

Yet again I don't want to update anyone on the recent happenings of my life.

I want to be quiet today. Do laundry. Listen to Simon and Garfunkel. Draw something.

You lose.

The only update I can offer is that this morning I got Black Like Me, by John Griffin, in the mail. I just finished Out of Africa and have decided to fuel my lifelong curiosity about homeless people in America. It seems like next I should read something set in Asia.

(This is laundry in France):

BEAUTIFUL

To make up for the complaints of my last post-- and I might repeat that I was very tired-- this time I am only putting up things that are lovely. To start with, Beach House, a new favorite band.

And while you are listening to that, you may look at this:

ICECREAM! Tiramisu flavored, with cocoa powder on top. Could anything be better?

YES, in fact, there is more.

Three dear friends have arrived this past week, so now there are five of us living in the house. So. Many. Girls.

Sarah got here on Saturday morning. Katie and I were terribly worried that she would be annoying or encroach on our space or who knows what, but much to our relief she's very easy to get along with. And this is good news, because she's here for three months to intern at the office, primarily as a photographer. Yay.

Yesterday my old old friend Libby Bruner arrived with Brianna Hudson, who was an MK with us in Papua New Guinea. They're touring Europe because they can. They are staying on my bedroom floor for three days.

And to close, big, bronze, naked people piled up under a fountain. I found them in Luxembourg Garden.

Goodbye nudes. I am going to eat frozen pizza.

OH MY LIFE

11:08. This is the third time I've tried to start writing something now. I'm so tired though that all of my thoughts are very grumpy and as soon as I type them I tell myself, Corrie, please, this is pathetic. No one wants to hear you whining. Go to bed.

I would however like to tell you one gripe. You females will understand.

I'm having one of those NOTHING TO WEAR weeks. I wake up in the morning, crawl upstairs to make coffee, and crawl back down to examine the options. I feel very much like an obscure species of Small Dark Ground Dweller in the basement sometimes, mostly in the morning when my hair is gross and my socks are crooked and there is no light on this side of the house. I pull out a shirt.

This looks acceptable. I put it on. Nevermind, this is not acceptable, but only very familiar.. Probably because, oh yeah! I just wore it 3 days ago.

Next. Wore you yesterday.

Next.

Finally I end up in something and have to spend a few minutes folding the rejects. Every morning I cast bitter eyes toward the sleeping bag that is folded in the cupboard, which took up precious space in my suitcase and was, upon arrival, totally unnecessary. In the garage there are probably 700 various extra sleeping materials, and I'll make it 701 when I leave the dern thing here.

Said sleeping bag has even inspired thoughts of turning sheets in the OM linen closet into new skirts, as some of them have quite fascinating patterns.

Now, one might say, For Pete's Sake, Corrie. Go buy some clothes. You're in PARIS, you might as well. And I might take one's advice on this if I ever get over how expensive they are. Plus sometimes it's satisfying in a small way to harbor mean thoughts toward the sleeping bag. Thorn in my side. I bear it with grace, don't I, except when blogging?

There has actually been real activity around here the past few days that I ought to make an update on, other than the state of my negative-3-item wardrobe, but I'm so tired I think I'll fall onto the keyboard any minute.

The real update will have to wait.

Good night. I just tried to spell something which I'm unable to specify because it was spelled incorrectly, and my computer said "no guesses found." It's that word for totally unaware, like a coma, to describe my level of awakeness right now. Maybe someone else can spell it right.

VERONIQUE

It's been a while since I gave you guys a real post, and I can't go to sleep tonight so I guess it's time.

There is a very interesting woman I can tell you about, who I see on a very regular basis.

Veronique, the most bizarre person in my acquaintance, goes to class at Telegraphe. She speaks French quickly and is always speaking, but I guess she comes to practice her writing. Originally she is from some African country where her father is allegedly a high government official, possibly the prime minister, but I don't think it really matters. There are so many stories, you see, that it's hard to know which are true or which she only tells to some or which she herself even believes. During class when Marie is giving examples of the proper use of articles, Veronique will look across the table at me as if we have a great joke between us. Who knows, maybe we do. I smile back.

Last class she tromped in with a large bag of old photos and memorabilia which she was going to use to prove to the employment department that she, Veronique, is not just a nobody off the street. She deserves a governmental stipend, and here are the pictures to prove it-- we saw them ourselves. Her father had an important looking ribbon across his chest and she, in the 80's, looked very smart in a shoulder-padded blazer and sleek hair. Almost a different woman than the one I see twice a week. She still wears the dramatic make-up, but that's the only similarity.

She now has a mass of matted gray hair corn-rowed to her head that ends in colorful braids tied in a knot on top. One can hardly ever see the gray stuff, though, because it is swathed in cloth. Patterns, plain; colors, white; round and round and always crowned by the braids wobbling like a loose doorknob. I have a hard time placing Veronique's age. Her skin is smooth, her smile bright, her eyes quick behind their gold-rimmed glasses. She has the air of a child and the mirthful confidence of an old woman.

Veronique adds extras to all of her clothes. She wears a green sequin-and-feather pin on her jacket, sews shells onto her coat, tears sheets and uses them for shawls, and wears up to three different patterned scarves at once. She wears pants with skirts with boots, shorts with leggings with sandals, the same lacy undershirt all week; recently she stuck scissors through her hand and has now embellished the bandage with a cartoon character handkerchief. It's been there for two weeks now. She embroiders. Once she came in and spread out several patterns across the table, explaining to us that she was going to embroider a bra for a friend of hers. Did we like the roses or the birds best?

I didn't specify, since I kind-of hope she won't consider me deserving of such a gift.

She always leaves in a great hurry. But when Marie and Katie and I get to the metro station, there is Vero, sitting in a colorful pile of garments, overjoyed to see us and to make conversation. Last week she and Marie sat chatting across the isle from Katie and I, who were reading as usual. Suddenly I was interrupted from my Baroness Blixen calmly shooting lions in Kenya, by Veronique, whose own story had evolved to the point of yelling. She leaped out of her seat and started sliding down the pole by the door in a way that was not altogether prudent, and continued all the while talking to Marie in extremely loud, animated French-- much too fast for me to keep up with. Katie and I both put our books away to gape at the show. Marie was cherry red, and everyone else in the train was watching.

After we got off I asked the other two what the story had been. Apparently Veronique's niece once stole her credit card, and after a while Veronique had reported her, and then the family got angry at her instead of the niece, and how that became the production that it did is beyond me. Veronique is full of wonders.

She's an odd mix of Africa and everything else you can find in Paris. Her geometric patterns, her Parisian furs, her headdresses, her Hindu forehead dot, her compliments, her need for your laugh and your admiration. Does she keep track of what has happened and what has been said, what the past really is and what she believes it to be-- or is it all as jumbled as her incredible wardrobe?

Is anyone truly aware of what their life is?

MONDAY AFTERNOON

ART ART

Accidental discovery of the week: Monet's water lilies. Check that off the list of life goals.

Also one of my favorites, Cezanne, above, was everywhere at the same free museum. How convenient.

I'm trying to practice art more while I'm here. I've been on creative burn-out since school last year. But I think there's a certain note of distinction when someone asks where a piece was from and you reply, cooly, Oh, I did that one in Paris.

Corrie Andrews, you are the epitome of shallow motives.

Also something I noticed: not every last picture in the museum was extraordinary. So to become a master maybe I just need to be prolific, because they certainly were.

GARDENERS

As I said in my last post, this week we have done yard work.

You know the formidable hedge of thorns that grows around Sleeping Beauty's castle? WELL. It is also growing around the OM office, and quite aggressively. But no more! Katie and I have successfully hacked it into submission.

Look how much we chopped! Almost as tall as Katie:

LA MER

It's time for bed, but I wanted to put up a picture or so.

This weekend Katie and her boyfriend Stephan and I went to the sea! In Normandy. We saw many beautiful things.

(On the way):

(Once we got there):

And a missions update, quickly-- English classes are no longer on the agenda since no one seems interested. Not that I blame them, this is the school break after all. So we are doing publicity instead! Flyers for everyone in the neighborhood, anyone who looks illiterate, or not, or multilingual, or needing to be.

We are also cleaning up the house/ office. I have recently learned how to trim bushes.

We are generally trying to be useful.

Next week it's back to the usual, French classes for some and child care for me. Bushes are nice for a while, but kids are considerably more friendly and exciting.

CORRIE FOR YOU, CURRY FOR ME

Hello Friends.

As you can see, the blog is being re-done.

My name here is not Corrie, it's Curry pronounced with a lazy R. As in the spice. A lazy seasoning used for Indian chickens and sauces, usually some shade of yellow, and preferably served with coconut. In French, that would be me... I still have trouble remembering to respond to this.

So I thought it would be more appropriate to call the blog Curry, as it will be limited to my time here in France and therefore my life in the guise of a food. Normal life in America as far as I can tell is really not worth blogging about on a regular basis, as much as I know you all would love to hear about my daily comings and goings in work and school. Yeah yeah, fun.

And as long as we're talking about curry and food in general, I should tell you about going to Fatima's house yesterday. After the fake English class Katie and I met another woman who teaches literacy classes, Jan, and Allison, the Texan lady I mentioned a while ago, to go to Fatima's house.

-Which Fatima is this, I asked them, because Fatima is a safe guess for any North African woman's name.

-Crepe Fatima, they say. (There's another one referred to as Hajj Fatima because she's been to Mecca, and many other Fatimas who I can't keep track of).

Sounds good to me. Moroccan crepes are thick, bubbly, and dripping with honey and butter. Probably the best thing to happen in this world since.. ever.

So we wander through Crepe Fatima's neighborhood, down her cobbly driveway, up the tile steps of her small apartment building, and into her home-- which could be Morocco itself. Rugs, walls lined with pillows and square couches, red geometric patterns, and... curry! The smell is faintly everywhere. Actually, she informs us, after kissing each of our faces twice, it's turmeric. Oh.

We sit down in the living room where her sister is watching TV on a maroon couch. In the course of our three hour visit we saw a Turkish show in Arabic, a long Chinese soap in Arabic, and an Anime cartoon, also in Arabic, lots of drama in all of them. We proceed to talk about women things, like how to cook certain dishes or which skin care products are good or how many kids Fatima has or her sister's health or who had the worst time getting their residential papers this year.

She fed us crepes, of course. And chocolate cake. And dates and chips and almonds and chicken kabobs (turmeric) with baguettes, and mint tea. Loaded with sugar as always. Fatima is from a very quiet village originally, literally, Allison explained to us after leaving, which is why she doesn't say very much... But she sure does make up for it with her cooking abilities.

Conclusion: I won't have to eat again for a year and I'm a little bit closer to my life-long goal of visiting Morocco.

ENGLISH CLASSES

These next two weeks are a school break in Paris, and since literacy classes follow the same schedule we are taking a break as well. No childcare for Corrie.

Katie and I, however, are teaching English classes to the vacationing children, 3 days a week during the afternoon, potentially ages 8-12. I say potentially because on Monday we set up camp in the church, all ready for eager learners and Father Abraham and Hokey Pokey, but no one came. We think the pastor didn't advertise very well.

Today is round two. The good news is, we can use the same lesson plan. This is cause for great happiness as sometimes motivation runs low, i.e. there are some very lazy people living in the rooms downstairs.

So it's back to Father Abraham.

Or back to Luxembourg Garden, which is where we went last time after the nonexistent English lessons.

It was warm and crowded with people and a little dusty and rather enjoyable.

...

This is a noteworthy mention:

On Saturday I went to Père Lachaise Cemetery, which is on a hill on the East side of Paris. This is morbid maybe, I know, but there's something really nice and peaceful about wandering an ancient graveyard by yourself in the sun for an afternoon. There were plot after plot of small granite houses, shrines, covered in moss, falling apart, and wilted flowers in vases, and birds and photographers. It was my favorite place so far.

SOMETHINGS UNPLEASANT

Here is a story or so about living here:

At Saint Denis, one of our class locations, there are two Norwegian girls who teach, but they aren't with OM. Unni and Carrie-Helen.

Well today the three of us were walking though the tunnel to the train when the staircase in front of us erupted with shouts and a man fell head-first onto the floor. Almost into our laps. His head hit the tiles and the rest of his body slumped down the steps beside it, all twisted. My first impression was that he must be dead; I did not feel well myself.

The man was breathing, however; he looked drunk and he was bleeding from the head... we knew not to move him, so all we could do was keep the flood of people from stepping on him. Nobody seemed to know what to do. They would pause and, seeing that we were standing there, assume that everything was taken care of. Someone finally called an ambulance and the health workers arrived and shooed us away, and I could never be a nurse, and I hope I never hear that sick thump of a human body again.

That poor man.

Unni said as we got onto our train, Well girls, the first thing we all do when we get home is look up the right numbers to call.

Also, continuing in public transportation:

Often when you are walking through the metro you hear musicians. One or two man shows playing harmonicas, violins, guitars, saxophones, singing for tips in front of advertisements of clothes, movies, and museums. They are usually quite good, and it's nice to hear music down there in the dregs of the city.

About a week ago Katie and I got onto the train and found ourselves standing in front of this very old man, probably in his 80's, playing his heart out on a violin-- and not very well. He obviously enjoyed it, though. The train was packed with people, all acutely aware of his presence there, and all of us scrambling for our change when he finished the song.

Most of you probably know this, but I love old people. I love them. Him especially. He was as tall as my shoulder, shuffling up and down the isle holding out a tiny cup for money and smiling at us through his wrinkles and saggy eyelids. I wanted to cry. No one deserves to beg on a train.

MORE PHOTOS

I was just thinking.

Most of you are probably my friends on facebook. So if you want to see more pictures of this and haven't, look here.

That's all.

Tomorrow will be: Women's Ministry Meeting, wash, groceries, nap. And possibly a trip to the park, if it's not so cold again.

SIGHTS

The things I enjoy best about Paris are not the landmarks many people come here to see. Yes, the Eiffel Tower and l'arc de Triomphe are impressive, significant, beautiful, but I love the streets.

The people who are all on their way somewhere, the walls that are losing their plaster, the staircases and the narrowness of every building. I like when the train track rides above everything else so that you can see people's laundry hanging out of their windows and their gardens starting to grow again in their yards. The mazes of neighborhoods fascinate me, and the clay chimney stacks clumped onto every roof as far as you can see.

Posters in the metro. Piles of cigarettes on the sidewalk. Crowded skies and overflowing fruit stands. The age of this place, and the way life continues here.

The layers of the city are what I will remember.