Gravel ground, benches and trees. Gardens and plants. People everywhere. Sunlight. A green metal phone booth. Her phone number I have on a small piece of paper. She emailed it to me. I dial. The dial tone is… different here. She says, “Hi.” I always liked her voice. Hearing it reminds me -still the case. She shows up. She has black hair and a big mouth, and a big backpack. She’s come ready.
Where do we go? We order Espressos. And we order food. I want mine before the food. She cringes when I tell that the waiter with my broken French. She reads the laminated menu for me and translates. I don’t want her to though; I’m here to use the three whole levels of French I passed in Montreal, and still… still, maybe it’s a good thing that she’s translating. Her hair is black. Her mouth is big. and I love her voice. If only she listened too. She loves talking about her “mystical” ways of seeing the world, tying up Rumi and Hafez and Salvador Dali and anything in between. And she keeps repeating it, as though to make herself listen. I listen, and I think. And I wish I could be alone with her for a second.
Where do we go now? I’ve rented a bike. Let’s see. She gets on the back of the bike. She’s game. We ride around the city. The cars here are not, how you say, “very mindful?” It’s okay. We ride anyway. She knows the city. I pedal; she holds on. We end up on a hillside with some famous old church on top. There are many people around us. Sitting on the soft grass, having their little picnics. I happen to have a bottle of wine in my backpack, that she won’t drink. Because… because she’s just hard-headed like that! who knows… We tour more. We ride through the big arc. We see lots. We experience something. She’s kind. And I’m nice. And that’s as far as it gets.
Having her on my bike for a whole day through streets of Paris is what counts -final analysis. And I live with that.