La vie en rose.

© Jessie Kanelos Weiner

Cheesy old me, there is nothing that puts a twinkle in my toes and opens my eyes more to the beauty of Paris than hearing an accordian playing on the street. I have possibly seen Funny Face too many times, but nothing turns Paris into a soundstage quicker than a little live music.  Moving from New York to Paris, the first thing I noticed was that metro musicians are on a French schedule.  They stay put on a car, performing a whole concert (from “Comme d’habitude” to “New York, New York”)  for their audience of zombies, never sacrificing their artistic merit for a few extra centimes.  Last week, I saw a fearless Michael Jackson impersonator  moonwalking his way down line 1, from Chateau de Vincennes all the way to La Defense.  I did not even see him solicit money.   In New York, musicians hussle their way through the Metro, maximizing their productivity, hitting and quitting each car between two stations.

I love street performers.  There is no better way to snap out of reality for a few short minutes.  Or maybe it is just what reality is.

Bon week-end, les amis.

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