12 October, 2009
Chris was on his first furlough from Kabul and he and Aline met in Paris, where I was just finishing two days of rather tedious but productive meetings with the Agence universitaire de la Francophonie.
We three met just before cocktail hour at my Parisian center of operations, Village Ronsard, Place Maubert, had a couple of drinks, and then diner together at another station on my Parisian cross, Au vin des rues, just off the rue Daguerre in the 14th — another former stomping ground. This is a bistrot where I am very much at home, and I feel both welcome and welcoming.
For Aline, it was salade périgourdinne; for Chris, 225 g. of steak tartare (faut le faire); I had a modest boeuf bourguignon. And what was that wine? Oh yes, a very sappy and peppery Saint Joseph.
They had both arrived that day so were jetlagged, as I surprisingly still was after three days. So we skipped the cheeses and packed it in before too late, snagging a cab from the rue Daguerre back to their rented apartment, whence I continued on foot through the Latin Quarter at the beginning of an official Nuit blanche, with hordes of people and music in the streets until the next morning.
Just before we hopped in a cab I bestowed a sincere kiss of thanks to Chris, just for being who he is (am I getting soft in my old age?)
