We ate soup and salad and laughed at things made funny only by 6 years of high-school and 6 more of silence and sporadic second-hand updates. We joked about our O’Henry bar cravings as we completed our first 30 hour famine in her parent’s basement in Dunbar.
She told me she doesn’t cry any more.
In contrast, I have found myself crying a lot lately, simply because I feel so overwhelmed by excitement and happiness: tears to indicate that I am on the right path, that detours are valuable. I am simply "taking the long way ‘round," to quote my favorite Chicks.
A change from one year ago when tears also flowed freely: overwhelmed and overworked. General state of confusion.
At post-salad pub quiz we missed “ten drummers drumming” but recognized “King of the Road” in the music round, for a total of a ½ point. We celebrated the victory of “The fighting croissanwhiches" who recited the 12 Days of Chritmas with ease. They brought out the champagne and this was my cue to head home and catch up on sleep.
But… I succumbed to a midnight drink invitation… why not celebrate the shift of Sunday to Monday? Plus, it was only really 23:00 because of daylight saving, I was assured.
We drank Bordeaux and talked about travels, Argentina, cheese and chocolate on an old sofa in a comfortable café in the Marais. I was led to the Marché des Enfants Rouge, my local market. Around the side, through a corridor, we entered a courtyard that borders the market: to the left, local community garden plots. I have been to the market at least 30 times and had never seen them.
“You can live here your whole life and continue to discover things daily. That is the magic of Paris,” explained the Parisian. In the cliché of the moonlight, we identified thyme, tomatoes and a rather strange addiction to Radio France International (RFI).