I am sitting outside the dance studio that my daughter and 35 other 3,4, and 5 year ballerinas (there are no Dansuer Noble -- no boys. My daughter often asserts that 'boys don't dance' and we have to correct her, but only in words as there are none in her class to point to).
The woman sitting next to me is trying to corrale two young boys and is likely waiting on a duaghter as well. She is alternately snapping at them and leafing through a 'Dummies' guide to french. She has some hasty notes on a map of the Paris Metro poking out of her bag.
I makes me remember my time in paris. I would love to go back, it is one of few cities I would live in (if I could afford to do so). My french was pathetic, but it was enough to get out of the occasional jam. Except for the Takeaway Carton Incident.
We had just finished an early supper at a wonderful little crepe place near our hotel in the Opera District. Our timezones were all messed up as we were in the last segment of a circumnavigation of the earth. My wife, who was two months pregnant suddenly wasn't hungry and wanted to put the remains of her meal in a box to take away. My brain, fried and tired, could only utter with word 'Avec' and gesture meaninglessly to the young waitress. For her part, she was more helpful than anyone could have asked her to be. Finally, after trying to help for a while I remember the word for Box and she threw up her hands and squealled 'Apport!'