Wine on the Terrace

I just got back from a few delightful bottles of wine on the terrace with Jacques and his friend Francoise (note to self: stop writing blog entries while under the influence). Anyways, in between the chocolate and strawberries, and of course, wine, I began to have one of those awful realisations that I'm leaving this place. While Jacques was admonishing me for not yet reading Proust, I almost welled up with tears, knowing this would be one of the last times I'd face shock and disbelief for not being completely au courant with all manner of French culture. "Wait, you've never read Tocqueville? Quelle horreur." While Jacques and Francoise spent the next 30 minutes debating the merits of Proust and a litany of other important French authors, I proceeded to listen, and drink, and eat strawberries all along.

This proclivity for haughty cultural talk, which might be termed mental masturbation in the States, definitely plays an important role here. I'll never forget being in the toilet room of some good family friends (which also happens to contain a bookshelf), and looking straight on at Voltaire, Moliere, and all other manner of French masterworks, all in pocket editions, spines well-creased by repeated readings. I took the bait from Francoise tonight and she's going to make a list. A list I predict will be exceedingly long, covering all the essential "bases" of Frenc literature.

On another note, Paris has really sprung into its own, weather-wise. Spring is here, and hopefully to stay. Everything has become beautiful and green. Everything has also started to become hot as I've realized the sad truth of the matter - Paris is not air-conditioned. And it's not even summer yet. I went to Palais de Tokyo last night - the contemporary art museum (ie: artists my age to 60-something) - and devolved into a pool of sweat in their upper floor, which for some reason was literally over 90 degrees (and it's only been in the 70s outside).