I just said goodbye to Theo and Ivan! FOREVER!
Or maybe just until Christmas. Or maybe FOREVER! Up there, in the picture, Theo and I are looking out over Lille from another friend's 20th-floor apartment. That was Saturday, after we had spent all afternoon baking at the seaside. If you look closely, you can just make out Theo's farmer's tan.
In France you don't say "at the beach." It sounds too close to "at the bitch," especially when French people say it. Instead you use the highly refined, 19thC-toddler-in-a-sailor-suit term "at the seaside."
OMG WHAT WILL I DO WITHOUT FRANCE?
I leave in the morning. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that part of my heart is breaking a little. Luckily another part of my heart is cracking the champagne and blowing noisemakers to celebrate the pending homecoming. Balance! I learned that from Gandhi!
At the seaside, we fly kites.
And accept licks from cute random dogs. And boys!
Just kidding! Boys have to reverentially recreate my image in a flattering sand sculpture first. So far, no boy has succeeded.
