Postcards from Paris

Friday night – Three women, three nationalities, ages from three different decades in a Parisian flat complete with tiled roofs out the window, good food and great conversations.

Saturday – lunch at a favourite vegetarian restaurant. The owner sang “I want to be loved by you” to one of his staff and we chorused poop poop de do. He convinced everyone there was an imaginary hole on the route to the toilets and even the most self-conscious local made an effort to step over the hole. People watched to see if they would.

Saturday – Sacre Coeur in the rain, a candle lit for a sick relative, a wander through the square where artists drew passer-bys, a discovery of all kinds of cloth shops, and a cup of hot tea in a tea room. When Marina said “entertain me” then disappeared for the obligatory stop, Mary and I quickly added faces to our knuckles and serenaded her on her return to “Let me entertain you…” followed by “There’s no business like show business…” with the appropriate “leg” kicks.

Saturday night – Three women in jamies watching DVDs as the rain pattered against the window.

Sunday – leisurely breakfast followed by a boat trip. This may be the fourth time I have done it (the boat trip), but I never stop pinching myself that I am in Paris and not as a one-time thing. I lost count of the times after 30 and maybe they shouldn't be counted. For a “little girl from Reading,” as my childhood friend’s father termed me, for a New Englander whose mother believed if you went much further than Boston you fell off the edge of the earth, it is a miracle.