I found the place where we belong

in this hoi polloi

I have a good sense of direction.  The best Sundays as a kid were with abuelo driving through the coast of the island aimlessly, stopping at the shops on the side of the road for bacalaitos and alcapurrias. Eventually we’d find a restaurant where my brother and I were allowed to order whatever we wanted, as long as we ate all of it.  We weren’t wasteful because in our everyday life, scarcity.  It was up to me and my brother to remember the way back.  I was the best at it.  Fascinating how this alleged ADHD doesn’t exist when I feel safe.  Now as an adult, Sunday is still my favorite day of the week.  I do whatever I want.  Mostly, I stay home and do nothing but feed myself, take a really good shower, and avoid the ‘sunday scaries’ by being grateful I get to have a day to just be.  This Sunday is a bit different.  We’re not driving through the coast but above it.  Instead of deep fried cod and beef fritter, there’s conchiglie and croustillant 3 chocolats.  I’m flying to Paris.  Let’s have one short day in Paris.

I have a costume outfit change at the airport, of course. Comfy sweats were replaced by oversized slacks courtesy of a likely unethical online shop. We stopped caring about the planet on November 5. Get with it. Blue is my color and this sweater is my shade. Well, one of them. Look around this blog. All shades of blue are my favorite.

Last year I walked Paris with Valeria and now I’m here on the way to meet her baby. I remember these streets in Nord Du Gard. I walk and forget it’s 30 degrees. I’m enthralled in conversations I don’t understand and clothing choices I wouldn’t make for myself. Though AirPods are not in my ears and no music is playing in my vicinity, I hear Bad Bunny loud and clear. I stop for a cappuccino and a dose of attention from social media.

My phone buzzes and dings and I get my fix, but it’s the ring as LAUREN appears on my text screen that excites me the most. She’s one of the friends I met the very first weekend I moved to New York City in 2013. We were introduced by a friend we no longer have. I remember the party. VERY high on best of frequencies.

The DJ became my friend. The bartender memorized my drink. Lauren told me she’s a witch and the rest lead us to this afternoon in París. (BARS if you can nail my accent.) Last time I saw her Trump hadn’t been President, Bisoux was a foreign word, and I didn’t know of the powers I hold. Okay, that’s enough for now!

We stop for a splash near her dry cleaners and, I mean, look at the material. You can be the judge of it.

Lauren takes me to Passa de Havre for a photo-op and LOOK.AT.GOD. Basquiat had been sent ahead of time just for me. Every time I see his work, I’m reminded of my innocence and the ways his interpretation of this reality mirrored what I’d see in my nightmares. Someone could see my monsters! I have ‘boy and dog in a johnnypump’ in front of my desk. Basquiat saw my future and painted it for me to find it. We order a croque madame and another Saint Jermaine, of course. This would be perfect segue into my current obsession, Martha Stewart, but saving that for another time.

The one ask I made was for a picture with the Eiffel Tower as background. We make it to a wonderful Christmas market. This “hot wine” was delicious as we sat and made plans for another trip.

As we continue to scheme our next activities over oysters, hopefully and definitely in another European country, my phone rings and real life find its way to me. A family member I have not spoken to in months is FaceTiming me. Another video call is followed via WhatsApp. I ignore both and excuse myself for the bathroom where I take this bomb selfie.

Lauren and I say our goodbyes and don’t waste time making promises about a next time. We know there’ll be a next time. That’s my favorite part about Sundays. I know there’s another one coming. Another Sunday that’ll be just for me, to do whatever I want, wherever I want to be. That’s no longer near my family.