Early morning smells and memories

As I sit at my computer the sun is coming up over the tiled roofs. The cock has crowed, the garbage men have rattled down the street, and I can hear my neighbor’s alarm tingle its soft melody. I have been emailing with my friend Susan in the States who is up late playing Spider solitaire. There are birds calling to each other. The breeze is carrying the smell of fresh-baked bread from the bakery around the corner. The last is Pavolian in its results. I must get dressed and go buy the bread that I know is warm to the touch.

When we lived in Boston and there was good baguettes sold at the Spanish grocery store, they never arrived home without a chewed heel. The joke became that a big mouse named Pedro, attacked the carrier of the bread, grabbed it, and ate the crunchy end. There are a series of bread-attacking mice wherever we go. If we bought bread in the Italian North End it was Luigi Mouse, and if the purchase was in Yuppified Harvard Square it would be Biff Mouse.

I could say that in Argelès it is Pierre Mouse, but I have to admit that I would pummel any mouse that comes between me and my morning French bread.