I Am Buried

Got home Sunday at eight or so, having bickered all day. We're so not bicker-ers. We were tired and ready for non-vacation time.

I had to teach Monday afternoon. I thought my syllabus for the class was on my laptop. It wasn't. I thought it was perhaps on another laptop, which was in the shop. It wasn't. I learned this an hour before class started. Whoops.

Maybe the syllabus never existed. Maybe I'm out of my mind. Maybe all the gelato turned my brain to mucus. Ew.

Anyway, then I had jury duty. They didn't pick me, glory be.

Then I had to write the syllabus that perhaps never existed.

All this to say, Paris? I was in Paris? How very odd. This is a different world, a different life, and I haven't even unpacked yet. My pretty pink shoes are still wrapped in a scarf, tucked in my backpack. It's been too rainy here to wear them anyway.

But I do remember. Our very last night we rode the train into the city and wandered around, bickering, trying to find somewhere to eat. Once we had food in our bellies, we were friends again. We had landed on that little island we went to before, at the same restaurant even. Then we waited in a long long line for one last ice cream cone. I got green apple and strawberry sorbets. We walked along the river, saw Notre Dame lit up, saw teenagers pouring vodka in bottles of soda and a young man in a short black skirt and a curly pink wig. That stroll along the river felt like a big smooch goodbye. Goodbye Paris, goodbye vacation, goodbye little moment out of all the moments.


belann said…
And life goes on. At least you have lovely memories. Savor them.
k. double-u. said…
That syllabus scenario is right out of one of my nightmares—you know the kind where you not only turn up without your syllabus, but you also can't speak coherently and you're not wearing any pants?

I'm sure you handled it with grace. Glad you're back.

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