Posed high above the glistening city of Grenoble we watch the boulevard Jean Jaurès stretch out before us, golden thread pulled into a taut line. I think it could run forever, like a path to heaven, except for the small lump of mini-mountain off in the distance that blocks its reach. Crouched, charcoal gray in the dusk, that piece of rock makes this boulevard seem so fruitless. In my imagination it passes on and on through the Drac and continue forever towards the Mediterranean Sea.

I wish my life was more like that, I told you, straight, simple, uncomplicated. Yes, you mused, but then it would be a lot less exciting.

We hug and pass on higher in search of this elusive Bastille.

Descending in the dark I wear your headlamp, and watch the light bounce down the steps like Tinkerbell. Below us runners bob along the trail, little puddles of electric blue light. These steps seem interminable and very slippery. With each step my stomach tightens in anticipation of a fall. What happens if we start rolling, Jack and Jill – like, all the way to the bottom? But we make it without a scratch and in front of the archeology museum, the headlamp’s elastic band snaps shut like an alligator jaw, swallowing several strands of my hair. You frantically fumble in the dark, and just when I suggest we cut it off, it escapes, somehow, magically (or maybe more through a lot of frustrated pulling) from your fingers. Hand in hand we wander off into the darkened streets, stretching like little spider threads before us.


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