Beach Day
I bought a lemlem before I left on my trip thinking I would wear it as a beach coverup, but one of my friends pointed out that I probably wouldn’t want to wear it to walk through town and down to the beach because it’s completely see-through. I packed it anyway hoping that maybe I could wear it around Estelle’s apartment. Then I got here and showed it to Estelle, who shook her head and said, “Bah, oui! Mais bien sûr que tu peux le porter! This is France!” (By the way, this is how we speak to each other: half French, half English.) So I put on my chic little beach coverup and proceeded to walk by at least a half dozen topless women on the beach, and it became clear that I was sporting the most conservative look on the French Riviera.
Le Premier Jour
Je suis arrivée en France! It was an easy trip. Surprisingly, I was able to sleep on the plane and so thankfully I don’t feel the usual hard slap of jet lag. Estelle picked me up from the airport and we were so happy to see each other that we started jumping up and down, clapping (I’m realizing more and more that I clap when I’m happy; sometimes awareness makes your life more uncomfortable because you’re now cognizant of that fact that you’re standing in the middle of an airport, jumping up and down, clapping). But I didn’t care; we were both smiling from ear to ear! I will have to tell you more about Estelle and our friendship, but for now know that she is probably one of the few people on this earth who truly gets me. We are cut from the very same (French) cloth.
La Vie en Rosé
Today’s the day I leave for what I can only describe as the trip of a lifetime. I’m headed to France for three weeks of vacation. You heard me. Three whole weeks (I know)! I’ve been fantasizing about this trip for a long time. I’m spending the first two weeks in the south of France with one of my best friends, Estelle. We’ll be staying in a little town called Golfe-Juan (between Nice and Cannes) at what was once her grandmother’s apartment—the place she’s been visiting every summer since she was a child. We have no plans other than to sit on the beach and drink rosé. Don’t hate me, although if I were reading this, I’d probably hate me (to hell with Sutra 1.33—cultivating an attitude of friendliness towards the happy can be such a tough practice). I then fly to Paris for the last week of my trip where I’ll be taking some cooking classes and meeting up with Billy for a romantic rendez-vous in our favorite city.
Paris On My Mind
I’m missing Paris like crazy these days. It’s been a while since I’ve been back and my heart is literally aching. I’m dying to put on a fabulous dress and just wander the streets until I get hungry enough to sit down at a café and promptly devour an entire baguette and wheel of Camembert by myself. I want to take le métro to the flea market where, upon arrival at Porte de Clignancort, I’ll have to lift the little latch in order to exit the train. I want to dip my fries into my poulet rôti au jus at Brasserie Lipp. I want to drink red wine until my French just rolls off my tongue.