I am in Paris at a strange computer and the air smells of hot chocolate and everyone drinks like Hemmingway and lolls in the streets and pokes one another with baguettes and wears fashionable little gloves and little jeans and seems to have a calling and I may never come back.
Okay. I will. And when I do, I will tell you everything I can remember; the first Shakespeare and Company bookstore where wannabe writers have pasted love notes to the old wooden walls, the flickering bistro where we were the only patrons as the West wind cleared the streets, the day I spent with a personal shopper exploring all the young designers with dayjobs at Chanel and nightjobs fixing enamel buttons, Waterlillies, Winged Victory, and the light show engulfing the Eiffel Tower each night, the cab driver that yelled, the cab driver that helped, my first Parisian party, the best and most bitter coffee, the cobblestones, the lights and the river...
Stories to come on Monday, when I am back and can tell you all about it.
In the meantime, Happy Thanksgiving!