Ah, hello, old friends..this is not the grand return post I had planned (there are three or four drafts of blog posts I've written and been waiting to post), but all day yesterday and today I've had the itch to write on here again and say hello.
Today has been surprisingly pleasant in that I on this early April (!) day to breezy temperatures of 57 which meant layering for work today, a delightful nip in the air as I strolled in, and the perfect day for an iced latte.
I'm home now, full of stir-fry and wrapped in an oversized, soft, white, fluffy bathrobe, having successfully polished off a chocolate chip cookie, taken out all of my trash, swept my kitchen, changed the lightbulbs in my bathroom, and am about to make myself a cup of tea,
Suffice to say, I feel like a thoroughly modern, domestic woman.
And yet now, the lights are low and cozy...my cup of tea sits on my bedside table, and I am reminded of Paris.
The one sprawling, teeming, beautiful, dirty, glorious, messy city I love and could live in happily.
I think of Paris nights...of the soft, evening light and balmy summer air. How the narrow, cobblestone streets looked in the blue-grey dusk of twilight and the glimmer of cafe lights appeared, the French clustered around tiny tables on sidewalk cafes, the clink of wine glasses mingling with that of keys as one by one, those of us in the city came home. Home - around the corner after a steady walk, for everyone walks in Paris (from le metro or l'ecole) - then hands in pockets or bags, and the delicate clink as the outer courtyard gate is unlocked, and we slip within, up several stairs, and past the landing into the tiny apartments.
Then my nightly Paris routine, after our host family is in bed and there is only a faint light in the kitchen: a cup of tea. Simple black English Breakfast tea with two cubes of golden sugar and a splash of milk. Tea meant to be savored quietly in the small white kitchen with my housemate while velvet blue-and-black shadows paint the rooftops outside the window.
Carrying our mugs back through the labrynth of a pitch-black hallway, attempting to navigate it without tea splashing over the rim of our mugs or giggling so loudly we woke our madame or monsieur. Then, finally, silent triumph and much tea-savoring when we made it back to our wee shoebox of a room and huddled on the narrow beds beneath our sheets while we listen to the sound of Paris falling asleep.
That is what tea in soft light and white sheets reminds me of.