by Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2019 Paul Ben-Itzak
Like what you’re reading? Please let us know by making a donation so that we can continue this work. Please designate your PayPal donation in dollars or Euros to email@example.com , or write us at that address to learn how to donate by check.
PARIS — So there I was at dusk, heart broken and sentiments seeping out, teeth throbbing and gums bleeding profusely into a bandage I was trying in vain to grit (hard to grit when half of your teeth are gone; I’m in Paris to have them replaced), staggering up the rue des Martyrs towards the Montmartre cemetery and the grave of the man I blamed it all on: François Truffaut. To read the rest of this article on our sister site The Paris Tribune, click here. To read more Lutèce Diaries, click here.