Our neighborhood is close to the Pigalle district of Paris, part of the famous Moulin Rouge. It's a wonderfully colorful area that defiantly skims the base of the hill at Montmartre, where the dire and sinister church of Sacré-Coeur looks down upon it. Or perhaps she looks the other way.The church hasn't much of a choice. Sex was there before she was built, and will be there long after she's gone.
Across the main Boulevard Rochechouart, lies another seething and festering haunt frequented by my errant boyfriend and many of our visitors: musical equipment world. Guitars, drums, amps, and other sexual tools.
I accompanied some friends of ours, salivating over their first harmonica purchase. They had hopes of someday bending notes with aplomb. As they oooh'd and ahhh'd at things that have no meaning to me, I stumbled upon these lovely ladies. They adorned some glass entry doors to...I don't know where.
The art is not much to speak of, but the feeling is there.
Definitely.By the way, who's Nero?
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