Midsummer, and the nights are jasmine scented. We drink red wine on café terraces, iced coffees at the local cafe Panis, and think about dinner while we eat a picnic lunch. Le Champo was playing an old murder mystery with that actor from the black and white movies, the one with the big chin. Alice fell asleep. Uphill through Belleville, we ride bicycles along the green boulevard that we’ve never been to before. We ate figs on the hill of the parc des buttes-chaumont & then climbed up to the top of the mountain for a view of the cathedral, byzantine, smokey, & imposing.
Back down from Montmartre, I hold tighter than necessary to the waist of a cute boy – no, I can’t call him a boy, but man gets stuck on the way out – sitting on the back of his Vespa. The wind is sharp. I bet he doesn’t know any good jokes.
1 comment:
oh; i have that 'homesick for a place that isn't my home' feeling! i'm glad you're having perfect snippets of summer & gloriously nice figs...
pete was at his frootique this afternoon, handing out peach slices with knife in hand (like a true greengrocer) & chatting about the weather (like a true novascotian). i walked home through the hazy public gardens, groceries in one hand and a bouquet of basil in the other.
i miss you!
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