There are a thousand Nancys in the world. Nancy upon Nancy, Nancy near Nancy,  a whiff of Nancy and a dollop of Nancy here and a song of Nancy there, and do you recall Nancy? At times while walking down the forgotten paths, you might even ask it of a stranger: as often as not, her name is already Nancy.

If you are old enough to remember ancient France, you will remember the first Nancy, the ancient capital of ancient Lorraine. It is located approximately 219 miles east of the train station of Paris, perhaps you know that train station already: it is the one with the little boy who sits on the bench with the paper airplane. His father once sang to him of Nancy, and the little boy cried as all boys do of Nancy and received a crystalized ginger for his troubles which of course comforted him. The sun began to set, 219 miles to the west. Paris burned with its fever. The boy’s eyes were blue with its tears and he would forget the ginger as he grew older and perhaps his father would die first. If so, he would name his own child after his father, Nancy. Yet today

Nancy herself, not ginger, albeit a tonic, restorative in the extreme for such youngsters as well as the young at heart;  you will find it choc-a-bloc with rich cultural tidings: there is a university, a museum of natural history, a very important school of forestry, a geographical society, a citadel, a town square and a world composed of narrow and winding streets. There is Meurthe, upon the left bank. She winks without knowing why.

Speaking of winks, and for those who are not as young at heart, Nancy is a ravishingly beautiful city, with a saddleworn sexuality that breathes erotic giglot pulsations day and night.  It stinks of danger and fatal liaisons spoken of in hushed tones under dim street corner lights when no one is listening and no one is thinking and there is a rapture and everyone is saying My God.

Yes, that is Nancy, all things to all people, and let there be no other, for no one should be young or young at heart. No, they should all be ancient and forgotten. They should all wink of death. There should be a smile on this tired old face. And then forgotten. They should be all geography. Let those who do not be enraptured. Let them all be, finally, Nancy.