Quiet Days
Quiet Days
After a final shopping day, saying goodbye to the Italian brothers, who sell homemade ravioli, lasagna, gnocchi, and sauces that bring tears to your eyes, especially when there is not enough time to buy another bite of food which always whisks me to the golden hills of Tuscany. When we first met the brothers, the quiet one had just cut his finger pretty deeply while slicing a Parma ham which was aged 3 years. Every time he sees me and my chopeau bleu (blue hat) he laughs and says his finger hurts.
Then there is the “crepe mademoiselle” with the angelic smile whose perky face and gestures makes you laugh as you devour every nutella filled morsel of your crepe. We gave her our card and asked her to visit us in Washington. She smiled and said, “maybe, I will add you to my list!”
Today while eating our final falafel at the park next to the abbey a young classic caricature of a Frenchman entered the courtyard. Picture this: he was wearing a dark blue beret, blue blazer top, grey pinstripe slacks, yellow argyle socks. He had a dramatic goatee and carried a blue blackpack that look more like a suitcase, with several baguettes sticking out at the seams. He carried a large square bag that looked perfect for an accordion. As soon as I pointed him out. Gayle said, “Why didn’t you bring your camera?” I’ve perfected the French shrug, which could mean anything!
Our imagined Monet or Renoir ate a small sandwich, rubbed his goatee and looked around expectantly. At any minute, I imaged an impromptu accordion concert or perhaps he would withdraw a sketch pad from his briefcase and begin drawing a courtyard of full of ethnic people, eating ethnic foods, bathed in a warm bath of golden sunlight.
Looking back, everyone had a story to tell, the sexy woman in flesh and black, stretched out provocatively on the bench, a mother and daughter who fed each other between giggles, the quietly chattering Japanese gals, a business man bent forward slugging down his lunch, and an elderly couple who gingerly found their bench and who ate from plastic containers so scarred from use that they were no longer opaque, seldom talking but having a closeness that only comes with binding age. Everyone has a story to tell, perhaps what makes a friend and a lover is having someone who is eager to hear our stories.
Evening In Paris Picture
posted by Bob and Gayle @ 8:46 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home