he.

morning in paris. It's always chilly. We settle in, unpacking our bags, turning on the electricity and opening the windows to clear out the musty air. Nobody has been there in weeks.

sun is up. the sweater goes away and we wander out to the corner tabac for a cafe creme and brioche. the croissants have long since sold out. Jet lag has instilled a hyper-realism, exhaustion awaits. We shop at the fran prix for our usual groceries - fruit and vegetables, ham, butter, cocoa, wine, apple juice, cornichons, pate, cheese, fresh eggs and cream. We walk to the tuileries - another cafe en route - and sit in the sun smoking cigarettes and watching. We grab the metro back to our stop - Argentine - pick up a baguette and put together a charcuterie platter at home. We pick through our delicacies and quietly talk. More coffee, more cigarettes. Exhaustion hits. We go to sleep.

At midnight we awaken to loud noises in the streets and go out to see. Young boys, grown men and CRS running through the streets, red lights squealing we-o we-o at each corner. At the Etoile cars are honking with whole bodies waving out the windows and sunrooves and tourists run in fear as store windows are broken along the Champs with everything not bolted down. The French have won the soccar match.

Somewhere between all of that he asked me to marry him. I said yes.