When I was little, I often enjoyed toast smeared in butter and battered with cinnamon sugar, all spread gloriously onto a paper towel which, when I finished my breakfast, exhibited melted butter stains and Mrs Baird's crumbs—but I always got up all of the sugar by applying a well licked finger. During the same time, snacks usually consisted of something like Gram's chocolate cake, Mom's brownies' or chocolate chip cookie dough (I learned that one from Dad).

My snack crave today was radishes with a bit of butter.

Change in taste? I think so.

I fell in love with an enchanted animals fairy tale book that I discovered at an old book market at Place Monge. The images are captivating. When I researched the illustrator, Adrienne Ségur, I discovered an article that included a photo of her holding her guinea pigs.

A kindred spirit.

My saturday afternoon

During the first year of university I was on the ballroom dance team. The chacha was our favorite but I figured cuban Salsa couldn't be too different. After several weeks of failed attempts to go to retro dancing with a friend, we finally made it out. Both of us were late but at least we got there.

The way home (metro) closes by 2:30am

For 13€ I got a coat check, 2 hours of lessons, a drink, and the option of dancing until four in the morning. The first hour of lessons was comfortable. As the second hour began and the number of salsa hopefuls doubled, the instructor asked the débutants to move to another dance floor and to respect the work of the intermédiaires. Having watched others who were descending miss the most basic steps, I decidedly kept my place…until the second turn. 2 minutes later, I was at the floor with the other débutants.

That the evening, I discovered I am not the fabulous dancer I'd hoped. My friend, however, is a fantastic salsa dancer, one of those good-natured guys that guides you around with deft movements and smiles 'till afterwards you feel like you were the talent. I always remembered my true colors coming out of a series of turns. I could never remember what count we'd been on.

I found Eric Maunoury in rue Mouffetard playing his assortment of boxes and tins and wearing a leopard print hat. After listening for a while I continued to the metro and took the train to marché aux puces.

Fumiyo turns a 15min presentation into an hour
long exposition on…I think Japanese characters.

Happy child.

 First day in shorts without tights since september and my legs joyously sucked in as much air as possible. We strolled comfortably in shorts to the Luxembourg Garden to scour the crowded park for a chair in the sunshine. Before closing my eyes, I witnessed a remarkable procession of children dressed as flowers and bumblebees parading around the fountain. Just when I thought the spectacle was finished, the ladybugs and butterflies filed by with their adult escorts, trying to keep pace with the lilies and roses ahead. I reclined there until a chiming clock informed me that my grammaire class had just begun. Luckily I was only 5-10 minutes away.

I told my friend (she's french) if she'd help me with my
presentation, I would make a tart…for us to eat together…

My french grammaire prof requires each of us to give a fifteen minute presentation before the end of the short semester. There are guidelines but all I remember is that they left room for Texas. So, Tuesday afternoon I shared with over 20 students from 13 different countries the history of my home state—which could be a country if it wanted to—followed by a demonstration of how to make guacamole. Discombobulated by the french, I neglected several important facts and phrases of Texan history but in the end, we had tortilla chips and guacamole.

After another round of the dance insanity involving a tv, game box, sensor, little light-up batons, two competitors, and all the greatest dance hits (including Party Rock Anthem ), some voted to change the game to gladiator combat. To entertain all of us as we waited for Clifford to overcome the technical difficulties, another guy asked for volunteers and began teaching the eight of us how to dance "le menuet." It wasn't at all the minuet I was expecting. By the end of the lesson, 8 more people had joined and the 17 of us had tumbled out of our circle and onto the ground. Although the steps were extremely simple, I cannot explain it to you except with the words hilarity, pointed toes and pointlessness.

This occurred at le week-end de jeunes adultes, organized by my church for the young adults. There were  over 30 of us who spent a weekend in a town 40 minutes north of paris at a large house just below the chateau.

Still raining…

For a moment, I remembered myself in Dallas. What am I doing here!? I am sitting in a Parisian apartment at a Swedish woman's table while the Canadian across from me explains the drawbacks of American politics over broken bars of chocolat noir and a mouth full of French. Je suis pas d'accord, I thought, but I lacked the vocabulary and sufficient knowledge of politics to make a respectable response. Several times throughout the evening, the four adults (Parisian, Canadian/Swedish, Swedish/French, Swedish/French) talked at the same time. Although my comprehension of the language has vastly improved, I have not yet mastered the French art of understanding four people at once.

Awad et moi un dimanche après le marché bio

Maybe next time.

As Awad (the Swedish student) and I chuckled at the aggressive conversation, the other four paused their discussion of racism issues in the United States to smile at us and explain that it is French to talk about politics and opinions this way. Afterwards, all leave amicably and improved because they have learned from expressing their own opinions and hearing the views and news of others.

Notre Dame from a bench
in Square René Viviani

One day last week it was so warm I didn’t need to wear my coat out but today, I put it back on, gloved my hands, and within the first 2 minutes of the walk to school regretted not wearing a scarf. After our phonetics exam, I scurried across the little park opposite the Seine from Notre Dame that encloses the oldest tree in Paris, passed through the Shakespeare and Co.‘s green facade and climbed the narrow creaking stairs on the back wall to read in a squat, tired armchair.

Il pleut.
Pont d'Arcole

Five days a week, I go to this rumpled little library for 45 minutes between my phonetics and grammar class to read from a work of Henry James. I’ve finished rereading Daisy Miller but, now midway through Portrait of a Lady, the book has disappeared. When I sit down in the chair, it is always waiting by my right ear, a position I assigned to it after rescuing it from a team of volumes used to prop up a three legged desk. Today, someone was in my chair and the book’s rightful place was erroneously filled. Much to the annoyance of three other readers and a writer, I, annoyed myself, searched every shelf—there are not very many—but could not find the work or another copy.