Every once in a while I am assaulted by some random ancient memory. I say assualted because it actually physically hurts like a punch to the gut. Okay maybe not that bad. What is it? Do I ache for my misspent youth? This morning's memory du jour: me and Andy in Paris is the spring. Was that really over twenty years ago? Was that really me? And now five years go by in the blink of an eye.
When I was younger, I always knew that I wanted to write. And I was constantly writing, filling up journals with self-absorbed bullshit. I thought, I really want to write but I don't have much to say. I haven't really lived. I have to get some life experience first. So I went out and got some. Now I've got this storehouse of memories from my adventures, but I'm not sure what to do with them.
So they sit there getting dusty, or aging like fine wine, I'm not sure which.
So I'll share it.
Andy and I have been friends since the fifth grade. He recently got in a bicycle accident and messed up his nose pretty bad, so he no longer has a sense of taste or smell. I describe for him the smell of the patisseries, the taste of the croissant au chocolat, the cafe au lait. We drink beer and play foosball. We visit the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Mona Lisa, the Thinker. We go into a grocery store to buy a baguette, and mayo from a tube like toothpaste to lunch in the city square. In line in front of us are some obnoxious American tourists, asking loudly "do you speak English?" to the clerk. Their interaction is awkward and semi-hostile. Andy speaks much better french than I, so he speaks for us. He does a good enough job that the clerk commisserates with us, nodding toward the tourists walking out the door, "stupide americans." We laugh and agree, two french kids on lunch break.
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