This is not my bike. Everywhere in Paris there are velos and I am walking. I love this photo of three dimensions retsing on two. I am no longer living in the 13eme arrondisement, but in Dallas. Everyday since I have been back, I have ridden my baby blue old-school bike. "The chicks love it." I ride in the rain, in the dark darkness of predawn. I want everyone to be on their bikes and scooters, wearing suits and watching as the breeze of their buzzing past the other more tame pedestrians whips their hair, their ties and ripples their crisp business suits.
I am on a bike, I am in transition. Tonight there is a soiree at my place- a ba-bye, au revoir party. I am in transition. I am leaving for Savannah but my bike is staying here, a soon-to-be gift for my friend and coworker at the cafe, who will put it to good use. It's not the pink one with skulls that she hoped to get for her birthday, but she adores the blue one and will "wear it well."
My frog-belly green trek awaits my return in Savannah. What wheels are waiting for me in Rome?
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