I still remember the shock when A. taught me to hear lamp posts. Out of nowhere I realized part of my surroundings. Every country, every city has a rhythm to its streets. Paris’ rhythm is that of narrow canyons, almost tunnels that are cut into sections by side streets and driveways of small factories, and artisans’ studios. Walking with D. to Pere Lachaise, along R. de la Roquette, along the old rural road heading out of Paris. The road of funeral processions, the road of death and mourning itself. A street like a tunnel, with its now familiar pattern of the occasional side street, exits, that are marked with a criss-cross pattern making my cane sing out against the façades. The open expanse of the Place Leon Blum. A butcher, a number of bakers, open for business on the sunday morning, tabacs and brasseries at either side of the crossing, then past where the guillotines once stood in front of the men’s prison, uphill to the cemetery. Because it’s familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, my listening is different. Because I can be relaxed enough (while being guided by the rhythm of D.’s high heels) to let my mind go, and tune in to patterns, to a landscape in sound.