Today we walk through Saint-Georges and Montmartre to Pigalle, the seedy ninth arrondissement neighborhood central to black expats from 1910 till around the Great Depression.
"You're cold, chéri?" "Non, Cissine, not at all."
I'm freezing. I'm wearing a CBGB T-shirt, a beige Nehru jacket that I refuse to wear slung over my shoulder. I left our apartment in a rush, not realizing the jacket matches my tan hemp jeans perfectly.
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