Faim

The last time I was in the City Where the Bridges and Quays Glow with Soft Light in the Evening, I was traveling with my parents and my youngest sister. My mother lent me her journal from that trip, which has been really helpful because she kept track of metro stops. The first night here, Wonderful Smart Beautiful Daughter read the journal, and she laughed at how detailed it was. "I think Grandma wrote down every single thing she ate."

Yes, that's true. My mother is a skinny woman who eats constantly, and her travel journals are always filled with food descriptions. In her journal from the City Where People Eat Leisurely Meals at Tiny Round Tables on the Sidewalk Outside the Restaurant, she described what we ate for every meal, and especially the goodies we ate every day from the nearest patisserie, laden with rich chocolate and real cream and fresh strawberries.

My daughter and I keep talking about how much Shaggy Hair Boy would love the bread here. Even a simple green salad becomes a filling meal when it's accompanied by a fresh baguette, cut into pieces and served in a basket. Yesterday, after walking through a park where fountains shoot water high into the air, visiting a museum with long paintings of a water lily pond, and climbing an old stone arch to look at streets that radiate in all directions, we rested our feet at a round red table in the sun while we chatted about our plans for the evening and watched the people walking past us.