It’s so weird to wake up in Paris at 5:30 a.m. when it’s dark but they’re stocking the seafood store across the street from my hotel, and then return to Chicago for the night. It was a long trip, enlivened mainly by my watching a terrific documentary on the young-adult author Judy Blume, about whom I knew exactly nothing. It was mesmerizing, with all kinds of interviews, including with grown ups who first wrote her when they were distressed children (there were thousands), many of whom kept up a correspondence for decades. I had no idea. .
A few photographic oddments from my return. First, a lovely Citroên Deux Chevaux, last produced in 1990. It was loaded up with Christmas gifts in the duty-free store:
I found this slogan on the wall of the departure gates a bit touching and cheesy at the same time: “Paris won’t forget you.” But of course it already has. . .
For some reason that sentence reminded me of this beautiful passage from Out Of Africa:
If I know a song of Africa, of the giraffe and the African new moon lying on her back, of the plows in the fields and the sweaty faces of the coffee pickers, does Africa know a song of me? Will the air over the plain quiver with a color that I have had on, or the children invent a game in which my name is, or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me, or will the eagles of the Ngong Hills look out for me?
A guide to what are apparently all the countries whose passports you have to show when leaving:
Below: back home again in the land of Silly Coffees. This confirms my theory, which is mine, that all coffee will eventually wind up as some version of a milkshake or liquid candy.
The worst is the “Iced Gingerbread Oatmilk Chai.” Since when did oats give milk? “Time to go milk the oats, dear.”