INITIATION

Montmartre is a place to let one’s hair down. Artists, poets, musicians, writers, and society’s misfits, unconstrained by conventional norms, indulge in libertine lifestyles and unbridled passions. René, my gay friend, is privy to Bohemian culture. He promised me an introduction — “as soon as you turn seventeen.” The date has arrived.

I’m the last to leave work. I bolt the heavy warehouse door behind me, enter the street, and point my feet in the direction of home. The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky before sinking below the horizon. Soft diffused light bathes the world in a warm golden hue, transforming the ordinary world into a mystical apparition.

I walk swiftly to avoid the cold, past men with their caps drawn down and collars turned up, clutching the last baguette of the day under one arm. Peddlers hawk their wares. ‘Chaud les marrons!’ I inhale the hearty aroma of roasted winter chestnuts. The rank odor of horse manure offends my nose, as does the excrement of fancy dogs paraded around by uniformed servants. As the earthbound populace scurries about, overhead chattering birds gather to nesting places for the night. Lamplighters on the boulevard begin their nightly rounds.

— From Channeling Josephine Callot, by Judith C Goldberg