The street on which my temporary apartment lies is both the loudest and the quietist in the world.
At 8:00 am every weekday morning, I'm convinced that there is no place noisier.
Jackhammers hammering, workers incessantly pounding, horns beeping, failed car startings, men yelling - this little backstreet plays host to the most noise pollution I've heard in years.
But come 11 am, something magical happens. The construction workers begin their 4-hour lunch, the traffic comes to a lull, and the strangely loud-sneezing man across the alley takes a brief repose from what is evidently a passionate hobby.
Of course, late lunch brings another bout of commotion, as does the end of the work day's "casse-croûtes", the dinner rush, and the after dinner (& 2 am) drunken time.
But in between these little frantic frenzies of action are brief moments when I like to pretend that I do, in fact, live on a quiet Parisian backstreet where the loudest noise I hear all day is the whistle of the baker at the corner boulangerie.
It was during one of these brief stints of street (well, "rue", but for alliteration's sake...) sanity that I took a few moments to frolick around like a fool in my new favorite weirdly cut sweater/shirt/thing.
And then get hopelessly embarrassed by two stealthy eyewitnesses of my Mini Cooper imitation play time idiocy. Teaches me to mess with other peoples' cars.
|mememe (I know, I know, too much me). Wearing: sweater: H&M (sorta similar), shorts: Forever 21 (similar), boots: Vintage|