Arthur Borghese

Centuries Pass, Paris Stays the Same

Entry to the Louvre is free twelve evenings of the year. On the first Saturday of each month, I wait until the night rolls out in a dark fog across the sky, dress simply, and depart the small one-room apartment that contains my meagre belongings. I walk along the Seine, dawdling; it should take me forty-five minutes, but tonight it takes an hour. Boats drift lazily along, their fat passengers drunk and raucous. I cannot blame them for their hedonism, for I was naïve and drunk on my own beautiful youth once too. Centuries pass, Paris stays very much the same.