Perhaps... Paris

Bonjour from Mile 12,062!

Perhaps I'm in Paris...

Sure, I'm eating out of plastic containers, but I'm using real silverware!

Plus, the pesto is homemade, and I'm pretty sure the gazpacho is puréed with local tomatoes. 

Normally I'd just grab takeout.  But I'm determined to keep up the Paris vibe, which includes taking time out -- to eat, breathe, and write.

I open my pocket journal, which I found in a bin at Cést Deux Euros, the Parisian equivalent of a dollar store.

In the spirit of Paris, I start "perhapsing." 

Perhapsing is a technique I learned in my travel memoir class --  a method of filling in sketchy details and unknowns with our own speculations.  It's entirely "legal," as long as I tell you I'm perhapsing.  

So, I am. :)

It was one of my favorite exercises of the week.

Picture this:  One afternoon in the Jardin du Palais Royal, a blur of pink catches my eye.

At first, she's just a dramatic photo from afar!

But then I move in.  Park myself on a pillar nearby.

(Far enough to be discreet, close enough to be within earshot.)

She and her parents are positioned in the shape of a scalene triangle.  

Mom is closer to her, more engaged.  
Dad sits farther back, on his phone.

They're speaking in Spanish (I think), so perhapsing is my only option.  I observe -- and put the clues together.

"Mommy, watch!"

"One!" Cartwheel.  
"Two!" Cartwheel.  
"Three!" Cartwheel.

She cascades across the courtyard.  Mom laughs.

Dad looks up.  Smiles.  Goes back to his phone.

She scrambles onto a pillar, pink sweatshirt flapping behind.  

Mom poises her camera.

The girl shoots a peace sign.

Puts her hands on her hips.

Strikes a disco move -- Travolta-like -- pointing to the sky.

Mom snaps, and snaps, and snaps.

Dad looks up.  Smiles.  Goes back to his phone.

Mother and daughter huddle together -- a curtain of long hair -- as Mom flips through the photos.

Then the girl skips to her father.  Pokes her head between his face and his phone.

"Daddy, did you take a photo?"

He looks up.  Smiles.  Pecks her on the cheek.

I scribble in my journal so I won't forget this moment and this place, this perhapsed dialogue, and all the details I've perhapsed about this family.

It's just an exercise, but it's opened up a world to me.

Au revoir, Palais Royal!

At Mile 12,062, I'm back in Philly -- and a world away.

The couple next to me is discussing Scandinavian cake, with a plastic bag of peanuts sitting between them on the table.  

It's odd on both counts.  

We're at Talula's Daily, which serves neither Scandinavian cake nor peanuts.

I listen in -- and start perhapsing.  (Perhaps the man's name is Herb...)

"I'm thinking of a simple dessert, like a Scandinavian cake," his wife says.

Herb nods, nudging the bag of peanuts with his finger.  

"Well, what do you think of that?"

He pauses.  "I just don't think you have to try so hard."

"She's young.  She's having health problems."

"So?"

"So a Scandinavian cake isn't hard.  You can just serve it with some light cream or lemon.  She used to work at the hospital, you know."

Herb touches the knot on the bag.  He wants to open it, but now that she's shifted from cake to health problems, he isn't sure.  

"You mind?" he says.

She sighs.  "Whatever you want.  I'm very agreeable today."

Perhaps they're going to visit their daughter's friend, the one with health problems.  Perhaps their own daughter is traveling (perhaps in Paris!), and perhaps they feel guilty about that.  Perhaps Herb is missing the Phillies game, and the peanuts are as close as he can get. 

For perhaps a half hour, I am transported from this table in Philly to a graceful café in the center of Paris.

It's a good place to be.

I look up from my journal.

It's unseasonably cool for Philly, with a mask of clouds and a breeze that feels like rain.  

Perhaps I've brought this weather back from Paris.  

I get up to leave.  

Then, in a unwelcome burst of reality, my leg bumps the chair -- metal on metal -- and my elbow knocks the fork handle, the one that's balanced on the edge of the plastic container.  

And the whole thing -- sandwich and all -- nearly catapults to the ground.  

By some miracle, I catch it.

I'm not graceful, and this isn't Paris...

Perhaps... I'm still me. :)

Walk on,
Rebecca