Back in June, David went to work at the Paris Air Show. Nearing a state of complete exhaustion, I tagged along -- sans Luke. I hadn't had any kind of real rest since before he was born and all I really wanted was the chance to sleep in. And maybe, when I would finally manage to drag myself out of bed, the leisure to sit quietly with a book and to drink a cup of coffee undisturbed. But Paris is one of those rare places that actually lives up to, and even possibly surpasses, the hype. I did a lot of sleeping and sitting and drinking coffee, yes, but, inspired by that incredible city and by Edmund White's lovely book, I became a flâneur. (In other words, I did a lot of aimless strolling around.)
In the Tuileries Garden:
I came across this unfortunate fellow:
Oh my god, there is a bird on my head.
Oh my god, there's a bird on my head and I am naked.
Oh my god, there is a bird on my head and I am naked. Plus, there's a big stick up my butt. And I just noticed I'm in the middle of some fancy public garden next to the Louvre. Jeez, this is like those nightmares I used to have in high school. Or something out of a Greek tragedy.