Au revoir, mama

My mom is gone.

In a sense. She left my apartment about twenty minutes ago and is now three or four blocks down the street, in her hotel room, in a modern, creak-free queen-sized bed, maybe writing in her journal, maybe reading a book, getting ready for her flight tomorrow morning.

Once you decide a trip is over, a trip is over. She might as well be back in Boston already.

It is time to be independent again. After two weeks of visitors and gratuitous neglect of my blog, I am once again alone--just me, Paris, and mes penees. How poetic.

We had a good week, my mom and me. We saw a ballet at the Opera Garnier and ate fabulous meals and walked around the city in the sunshine and walked around the city in the gray-time and walked around the city in the mist, and made plans and canceled plans and changed plans and walked and drank and ate and walked and talked and saw and drew and walked and drank and walked.

Tonight we went out to a little Bretonne restaurant down the street from me, a hole in the wall that I pass almost every day when I walk to Bastille. We drank hard cider--my mom almost ordered this special expensive kind that was about halfway between hard cider and soft cider, but I put my foot down--only the real shit for me--and ate Brittany-style crepes. I feel soft and fuzzy from my hard cider. The cider sort of tasted like mold--but I only mean that if mold can have a really great, tasty connotation. If not, scratch that observation.

Fabulous week. I'm tired and buzzed. I have a mid-term tomorrow, apparently. I learned that little tidbit about three hours ago, and have not altered my plans to accomodate for it at all. Failing doesn't count if you're nine time zones away, right?