Aimless letters to no one in particular
Paris — The bus crawls the hill, never more than a few miles per hour. It gently taps the bike, the biker collapses in a pool of his own drama, but I have to wonder: what the hell is a bus doing here? It’s the butte of Montmartre, hordes of aloof Chinese and fat Texans stopped mid-street with phone cameras…
London — I waved frantically, “Excuse me, sir! You’re my driver!” But the pleas were for naught as my first Uber driver upon moving here, at Heathrow’s Terminal 2, caught my glance, and with a face reflecting some mix of confusion and panic, scurried on. Wander into an empty restaurant here and the host, overwhelmed by a walk-in – “no…
