It is a rare day, good or bad, in this city, where I do not, at least a few times, feel high on drugs.
There is no way to take in all the time how pretty so many things are here in France when we are walking around. There's too much of it. Plus, I live here. I dodge dogshit every day. We stumble down the same streets over and over. We try to avoid communication disasters when we're just buying dishsoap. We still don't understand how cream works here. There seems to be eleven kinds of cream, but I'm not sure any are the sort to put in coffee. And they include long collections of words on the containers like "Fraiche" and "Fluide" and "entier" and "Fleurette" and so on, each somewhat understandable, but grouped together in constantly novel and never repeated ways. We walk endlessly, things opening and closing around us at any given time. Sometimes we cross the city to go somewhere only to find them shuttered like they never existed. Things don't always work out.
And then we'll see the light on a three century old building, or the water of the Mediterranean, or a seagull will fly by before us in slow motion, slow motion! and I could swear I am so high that Hunter S. Thompson would be taken aback. Cannons explode. Opera singing pours from a building onto the beach.
Holy shit.
And then we go get a coffee.
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