It was beautifully hand-crafted with smiles and a lattice top, just the kind of apple pie to make any southern woman proud. Before shoving it in the oven, Thais and I, as is our habit, staged the flour strewn wooden table top for a photo. But to my delayed horror, the opaque vase on which I had propped my dear dinky camera was neither stable nor empty. I was still smiling as I sealed the only slightly wet appareil-photo in a bag with rice. Two days later, the buttons respond but every photo comes out black. My smile wavers.

In honor of the departure of my little blue camera, there are no photos in this post.

I failed again to produce the tortillas of my tongue’s dreams. 
The evening was nearly wasted—and by wasted I mean spent making jewelry—until I went to Thais’ room and reminded her that tonight is her last Saturday in Paris and we had yet to go to that jazz café together. So we donned our coats, gloves, scarves and walked 100 feet to Café Universal. The jazz was wonderful but we stood because neither of us had money to spend on drinks. After several songs, our exit was cut short by the introduction of “Ne Me Quitte Pas,” a famous song that we both love…or thought we loved. In the middle of the song, the bartender caught me staring blankly at the glowing drinks she was preparing. When I looked over to Thais, I realized that she was doing the same thing; slightly leaning forward, hands in pockets, eyes glazed over, head tilted to the right, drooling…not the drool. I bumped her and we tumbled outside laughing. 

My sparrow friend wants more bread.

Rain.
There better be no more Christmas
decorations come February.

The weather was so beautiful yesterday. The clouds fluffed and towered in the blue sky without blocking the sun from my face as I soaked it all in.
This morning as I left to buy vegetables for soup and a baguette for my unappeasable bread crave, I was met by that Parisian rain-spit and a heartbreaking grey while the cold mercilessly invaded my body and deep within my bones, something foretold of snow. Thais longs to see a snow covered Paris before she leaves. She has eight days but I have a good feeling…

Rome

As a Kuwait Airways employee opened the gate for the Paris flight check-in, a woman agitatedly jerked to the front of the line, upsetting the attendant and one or two others  around her. Parisian, I thought. She began chatting in her decidedly French accent with me and the 72 year old woman from Los Angelus who had been waiting at the gate since the day before. As the Parisian woman huffed and smiled with her rather full, strangely pink colored lips, she claimed she used to love her country but has since become tired of the government and the people. 

Paris

"In France people are…" she fills her mouth with air and releases it in a “pfff” while making elbowing motions and wringing her right hand in the particularly French expression of something arduous. In two years she hopes to move to Lebanon with the beaches and mountains, an easy way of life, and smiling, unperturbed people. I just grinned.

At first, a Parisian can seem prickly and thick but it takes very little perseverance to reach the human being inside.  

Rome v Paris 

Rome: cleaner streets, friendlier people, faster cars, foamier cappuccinos, increased public promiscuity, and so many ancient columns lying about that they dont know what to do with them. Today I bought a chocolate croissant and a cappuccino for €1,50. In Paris, I never buy cappuccinos because the little espressos are always around €2,50 and a typical pain au chocolat costs €1,20.

friend, Katie, friend, moi

View from the Spanish Steps

My housing in Rome is one of the Papaya Female Hostel's three rooms. In this room there are two bunks, a table, two chairs, four lockers, two Asians, and a body-like lump in the bed below mine (I have yet to verify). This hostel is a gem but I never linger in bed due to the cement block that someone deceitfully sold to Papaya as a mattress. So, without difficulty, I rose a bit unsatisfied at 7:30 this morning to meet Katie Little at the Trevi Fountain. Katie’s here for a school program and I am here for Katie. I saw her three weeks ago at our high school’s Christmas alumni party and today we climbed the Spanish steps, toured Villa Borghese, and caught up on the general and specifics of our lives over glasses of wine and fresh pasta.

I am the only one left

From Monument to Vittorio Emanuele II

I left the apartment around 6:40 instead of 6AM. At the RER, I gave the sluggish couple in front of me in the ticket line a murderous glare to help them understand I was pressed for time and not happy about missing the first train. Several minutes later I repented, even thanked them, when I realized I'd forgotten my passport. If I had boarded the first train before realizing my mistake, I would have missed the flight. My bouncing backpack and sleep-deprived body burned but my mind, filled with the thought of missing my flight, was unsympathetic. Although I successfully boarded the next train for the airport with my passport in hand, I felt pale, sick and sticky for more than an hour after. As if that wasn't enough, I later nearly jeopardized not only my trip to Rome but the remainder of my stay in Paris. After a 1h45 plane ride and waiting 30 minutes for someone to tell me to disembark from the airplane—everyone else seemed to be waiting around too—I realized new passengers were boarding. Not good. Let me off. One of the flight attendants and an airport man scrambled me off the plane before it left to…Kuwait?
Do you know that if you had stayed on the plane you would have been held and deported? He sputtered anger and incredulity.
Well, do you know that your plane is not good at communicating?

Chicken pie. SO good.

leak and potato soup

My course doesn't begin until mid February, so I've been doing as I've pleased since returning to Paris—including buying a ticket to Rome for the weekend. Unfortunately, when my days lack structure and activity, I fall into a pattern of lazy restlessness. To combat this unproductivity, I took a much needed visit to Emilie's. Instead of writing, drawing, or sewing as I'd expected while Emilie was away at work, I've been cooking and baking. This has led people to believe that I am some sort of kitchen guru which is utterly false. Even at home, baking rarely surpassed the occasional box brownies and Ramen Noodles pack. My apathy for cooking used to concern me. Mom always said, "don't worry, it will come."

My first chicken

It has come.

Lots of sailboats and kids today.

The lingering warmth lingers no longer. Winter has remembered itself. I layered up in heat absorbing dark blues and blacks and walked briskly to the Luxembourg Gardens because a day with sun is a rare event in Paris that we are obliged to enjoy. The Sunday and sun-filled blue sky drew the crowds but I patiently circled the fountain's perimeter scattered with light green metal chairs. Today, I waited for one angled into the perfect nap-with-my-face-catching-the-sun tilt.

Enjoying the sun and the tilt.

Later that evening at church, a friend won brownie points telling me I looked tan. I don't look tan, especially taking into account the only part exposed to the sun was the little percentage of me between my upper lip and my eyebrows, but the comment pleased me nonetheless.

church

In addition to letting me stay in their
lovely Scottish household in England, the
kind family taught me how to make scones.

After morning church in Bury St. Edmunds and a delicious roast for lunch, I rode with three beautiful English girls and Beyoncé's newest album into town for tea. We climbed to the upstairs of the tearoom where everything creaked and none of the surfaces joined at right angles. The kind of decrepit place that's so precious you hope no one ever fixes it. While the young ladies helped me organize my next day in London, I drank tea and ate the most fabulous scone spread with butter, jam, and cream. Yes, all three.

Downtown Dallas

"All you've talked about is food!" she accused.
That is not true! I thought. But as I formulated a response, I realized her incrimination had interrupted an animated comparison of Spanish and French cuisine…animated for me and Michael, a friend who'd recently studied abroad.
"oh. sorry," I said with a guilty chuckle.

I knew that the meals would be heavier, creamier, and meatier in the States. What shocked me most was how perfectly polished and plastic the large majority of the fresh foods looked. The carrots were too clean, the apples too round, and the onions too big. Unnatural. No wonder it's the most obese nation, we are gorging (and then throwing away) foods that have been injected with stimulants, preservatives, syrups, sugars, etc. A plague of poor health with every bite of the ranch drenched, dirt free, pinky-sized carrot.
Slight exaggeration, yet my body and mind relaxed as I walked from the station to the apartment, greeted on all sides by the smell of bread and the sight of dirty, lumpy vegetables.
Back in Paris.

Texas, oh how I love (when it's not scalding hot)

23 DECEMBRE 

Hey Ben! 

exclamations from Ben expressing his surprise and delight at a phone call from me

Could you pick me up tomorrow from the Dallas airport?

Uh...what?

Could you pick me up from the Dallas airport tomorrow around 3pm?

DFW?

Yes.

Wait, really?

Yeah!

…

Between meals.

24 DECEMBRE: call to Lampasas, Texas

Hi Grannie! Am I on speaker phone? Are Mom and Dad there?

The family sings “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”

Oh hello Emily! We’ve been thinking of you and miss you a lot. We wish you were here!

Me too, Grannie, so I flew home and I’m in the Dallas airport. Could Mom and Dad meet me in Glen Rose?

gasps and exclamations

Really Emily?! Here I’ll let you talk to your Mother so ya’ll can figure all this out.

squeal from Mom

10 minutes later in the airport…

Neeeee! (this is sound created by pressing the tongue against the roof of the mouth, building up the greatest possible volume on the edge of the throat, then letting it all out at once in a screeching whistle upon releasing the tongue from the roof of the mouth. It can be heard for miles when executed correctly. My school friends and I use it to locate one another on campus.)

REAL good burger: Storm's in Lampasas

My head turns.

Ginny (who had made the call) and Ben come running just before I exited the airport.

Squeals ensue, laughs roll, tears fall, eyes turn, hugs commence, smiles spread.

During the hour and a half it took for them to drive me to Glen Rose they never once asked me about Paris. I wonder if they were afraid to ask, afraid to discover that I had changed. 

Dont worry, there is nothing drastically different about me.

They weren't prepared for me so I got a Target bag stocking
with goodies taken from my brothers' stockings

We met my parents and my Shnookie (my blonde dog) at the Sonic and from there, Mom and Dad drove me to the family gathering in Lampasas.

Everyone there had been present during my startling call except Granddad and they’d purposely kept the news from him. When I walked into my grandparents’ house, I stood at the end of the dining room table where he and the men of the family were playing cards. His casual glance up changed to confused concentration followed by a big smile and “Well, Emily!” Then a hug.

It was a wonderful Christmas.