It's no Africa, but it'll do

First, the words.

breakfast - in the sunny farmer's market across the street i was in my fabulous pajamas and paisley scarf, holding my box of muesli and a sac of nectarines (three for 75 centimes). suckin' on a pit as happy as can be.

we went to a bbq last night outside of paris in a small town called antony with old houses and english gardens. i took the train at midnight after work and good friends were throwing champagne/sausages/birthday cake/red wine/taboule at each other under the outdoor christmas lights and asking why i had to go home so soon (july 29). prodigy and bob marley.

when we were leaving my roommate's best friend was lurking behind the scooter with a coke bottle full of water, waiting.

the french invented sabotage, you know.

we rode home soaking wet and there was an american in my bed named Lani Oshima.

It has been amazing. something miraculous has happened every single day. i was walking in bastille thirsty and broke, and a man in an apple costume handed me a can of juice. story of my life.

Cross cultural moments continue to abound, but I'll write about that later.