Which is about finished, but needs editing, and I am really tired of it at this point.
But, before the picture, I need to mention my afternoon adventure.
I went to Départ Saint Michele at 1700 for a small pichet of wine and to read the 14 page report on Turkey in The Economist.
I ordered a “quart de rosé” and had settled in with my Economist, when I noticed at the table just to my right, toward the street, through the glass partition behind which I had chosen my table to avoid being in the middle of a community of smokers – everyone, almost, smokes in France but they have been banished to the sidewalk portions of the bistros – a young woman who looked like Sofia Coppola, only better looking.
“What a voyeuristic bonus to my reading” I thought to myself.
I was enjoying the report on Turkey with occasional glances at “Sofia” and her friends when the situation even had another, unexpected, dimensional improvement.
A young couple – I would have guessed not old enough to be in a bar – but in France that may be less of an issue than in Americastan, were entering the bar. The young woman was a perfect – FUCKING PERFECT – Brigitte Bardot wanabee.
Between "Sofia" and "Brigitte" I didn't get too much - but some - read about Turkey.
Just to bring things back to an even keel, I guess, as I was leaving, I was utterly sure that I saw Patty Murray take the table next to me.
But here is the picture:
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