Walking in Paris is a Long Sentence, by Maria Caponi

Round Table with Crayon Marks, photography by Maria Caponi (USA, b. Argentina) contemporary

Walking in Paris is a Long Sentence

Today I was walking – no it was yesterday or maybe was last year – when I crossed the city south to north, east to west, every day, I mean I wandered, my pace unhurried as I took pictures of people, buildings, cars, and mostly evrrything on my way while I asked myself why I do that, why I walk so much, why do I watch so much, stare at every passerby and it was somewhere while I ambled between one block and the next that it struck me how we like to live in villages within the city life, an observation I came upon when I passed a crowd of women clad in bright orange, intense yellows and green flowered and flowing garbs, their heads covered, pushing strollers while speaking in loud voices, a language that I could hear well but couldn’t understand, a patois perhaps from another land, but this was Paris where I happened to be at the time, and then I passed several stores with stiff men, standing straight in their entrances, dressed in tailored suits, mirrors of ambition, lies covering their plastic pink skins, molded golden wigs for the mannequins hair, while the store owners were dark, and beyond those stores, the next ones had their vitrines full of white tulles for the brides, long dresses embroidered with garish pearls, bright white, and I kept moving, strolling through more blocks encountering now many people walking their small dogs, couples hand in hand, their face concealed with floppy brimmed hats avoiding the sun, khaki pants, most of them were pale, spoke in low whispers, in Queen approved English or plaited, strand by strand, French into their breath while they looked at the store windows crammed with stiff chotchkes or whatever they call these decorations that people like but have no actual use for, these stores owners were white, the clerks behind the counters were dark and I kept going through the streets full of noise, ambulances, police cars their red lights on, the smells of dead fish, grilled meat and cooked salmon, kebabs, and falafel, jasmine rice, tabbouleh, momo, thukpa and gyurma steaming from open stalls next to boulangeries and viennoiseries, and I stopped there and chose one of each fare: shrimp atop wilted spinach, roasted pumpkin, a fresh baguette and a pain au chocolate, took a seat on a high chair besides a tall round and varnished wooden table, scratched with blue, red and yellow dogs and cats,  children’s drawings reflecting the afternoon sun.

Maria Caponi

Maria Caponi was born and raised in Buenos Aires, Argentina. An only child with a vivid imagination, she spent much of her childhood inventing stories and working on mathematical equations. She has a Ph.D. in Physics and Astronomy from the University of Maryland and a Certificate of Creative Fiction Writing with honours from the University of California, Los Angeles. Maria has lived in Los Angeles since her late twenties. Her memoir, An Accidental Pilgrim, a memoir in prose and verse, was published in 2024. She’s currently completing a collection of personal essays and poems. More details about her work and interests can be found at https://mariacaponi.com/