Viva Roma!


Or something like that.

To celebrate saying yes to the Universe I have been granted a trip to Rome.

I will be flying out the 20th of April from Charles de Gaulle in Paris and returning the 23rd of April from Rome.

Just a quick in and out.

I have never been to Rome.

I have no idea what I should see in Rome.

I have a few days to do some internet research.

I am just absurdly grateful and actually rather in awe that I get to do this.

Hell, that I have gotten to do any of this.

“You will see,” he said to me this afternoon in his lilting French accent, “you will discover so much will have come from this journey, it is of the educational variety, non?”

He continued, “you will be back, I know this, we need you here.”

I smiled, nodded.

“You are inspiration, you are your own authentic self, that is what I aspire to be, that is what we all need to be, to find our own authenticity.” He finished, smiled and I teared up.

“Thanks, Stan.”  I said and sat and listened for a while this afternoon.  Then I was invited to lunch with another friend I have met here.

I got to get turned onto the salad bar in the neighborhood.

It is not like an American Pizza Hut buffet, but a really divine little French company that does a build your own salad.  You choose a bowl of lettuce–mache, frisee, romaine, mixed greens, and then they toss it with your choice of toppings, and dress it.

I had a baby greens salad with pink grapefruit, tomatoes, edamame, and avocado with a citrus and olive oil vinaigrette.


Day 8 vegan style.

I explained to my friend Shannon I may not stay vegan, but I am going to definitely give it a go, I am officially having cheese detox after the weekend stay in Chambourcy.

“You know how in America you have a vegetable crisper in your fridge?”  I asked Shannon yesterday via Skype.

“Ya,” she nodded, adjusting the Penelope LaRoux so that I could see her little ginger tipped ears in the video screen.

“Well, they had a cheese crisper,” I said, “I am not joking, three kinds of camembert, Roquefort, Elemental, bags of Baby Belles, mozzarella, chevre, more, I lost count, and I drank three lattes a day while I was there.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah, I know, disgusting, but I knew it was to be my last, so I openly admit it, I overindulged.”

I won’t be doing that again.

My tummy was not friendly with me for a few days.

I feel like I mostly go vegan anyhow, it’s not been much of a stretch.  It has just come down to, don’t raid the baby sitting gigs fridges for cheese and you’ll be fine.

Cheese has opiates.

That would explain some stuff.


I digress.

I shall not be imbibing of the pizza or pasta or gelato in Rome.

Not that I have been engaging in illicit treats here.

If I can not eat a baguette or pain au chocolat my entire time in Paris I won’t have any trouble not eating pizza in Rome.

I will probably do exactly what I do here.


Get lost.

Walk some more.

Take a lot of photographs.


Or whatever the Italian word is for voila!

I asked Corinne today if she had any suggestions as to what to do before I left.  She nixed going to Montparnasse, but did say I should climb the bell towers at Notre Dame.

I had not thought about it, but apparently you can get really close to the gargoyles.

I would love to get some shots of them up close and personal on my camera and if I could go at dusk, or late afternoon the light could be amazing.

So, climb the stairs to the top of Notre Dame.

That and a trip to the Louvre to see the two wings I have not explored.

Not tomorrow as its closed, and I may have plans anyhow.

I am not quite sure if my plans are to go on a date with this guy I met on the stairs of the Metro at Alma-Marceau, or if I am to be his tour guide.

It was a strange and interesting interaction.

A man caught my eye on the stairs and I recognized him from Bert’s cafe.

He was having a coffee with a man I assumed to be his partner last week while I was there with Greta doing some work.

He saw me today and gave me a look, paused, and said, “where do I know you from?”

I smiled, and said in halting French, “last week at Bert’s I was with a friend and you were in the back on the couch with a friend.”

“Ah! Oui!”  He remembered.

The next exchange happened so quickly that I am still uncertain it happened, but I have his number, an Austrian one, in my book, so it must have.

His name is Michel-Claude, he is a doctor, Austrian, here for three days and he would like someone to show him around and he thought I was pretty and nice and obviously knew my way about Paris.

I was flattered and agreed, I said I was available tomorrow, not tonight, as I was babysitting, he said he would call and set something up.

He was very well dressed and I thought, hey this could be fun, take him and his partner around some nice tourist places, maybe make a little extra travel to Rome money.

I gave him my number and e-mail.

Then I said I had to catch my train.

Then he said I was pretty and I got the look.



I thought you were gay.

Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.

You’re not gay.

You are European.


I may have said I would go on a day long date with someone and show him Paris.


I have not heard from him yet this evening, and I may not, but in the spirit of saying yes to the Universe, why not?

I can show up to Bert’s and have a coffee and who knows where it will lead.

Saying yes is leading me to Rome.

Saying yes has led me to Paris.

I am just going to keep sending it out to the Universe.



Or however they say it in Italian.

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