saturday

Rue Champollion.

Without a Shadow of a Doubt, I fell in love with a stranger every time I went to the movies in France. White-haired couples wearing matching trench-coats. Little kids guffawing at the Marx Brothers. A gaggle of teenage boys standing in the queue at Action Christine for Swing Time. And most importantly, the endless stream of dreamboats drifting in and out of the dark theaters swamping the Quartier Latin. One such experience began by butchering the French translation of Chaplin's City Lights in front of a dashing chestnut-haired, grey-eyed fellow that chuckled good-naturedly when I stammered "la ville des lumières" instead of "les lumières de la ville." A rookie mistake, I suppose, but I managed a sheepish smile while my insides turned inside out as he said "le même" and chatted with the owner (once again, good-naturedly). As my luck would have it, the same fellow was smoking the end of a cigarette outside of the same theater the next day. Naturally, we exchanged grins as I ducked in to buy my ticket, and naturally, we ended up a seat away from each other before the film began. And without meaning to, we silently reenacted a scene from Masculin Féminin in the bathroom as we washed our hands next to each other and threaded our fingers through our hair with curious glances. Despite the (unfortunate) dead ends of these moments, I think they capture exactly what I like about going to the pictures. A familiarity to something I can't quite reach.