Meatballs and nightcaps

   Saturday morning it was my turn to wake up with a start. “It’s eleven o’clock! I gotta get up!” I jumped out of bed, and started putting on clothes.”

   “Where are you going in such a rush ?” Carol asked, still sleepy eyed. (Yes, we were still lounging till nearly the crack of noon.) “More importantly, why are you going in such a rush?”

   “I have to get to Les Halles before they close. The meatballs!”

   “But why this minute? Besides, I want to go with you.”

   “It’s Saturday. The shops will be closing at noon.”

The point of the tram ride was to go to the end, and when we got there, we turned around and rode it back. If you’re asking yourself, “why am I reading this?” I really can’t help you.

   This is true, inasmuch as it was once true. Like when I was in Europe in 1971. While I continued to rush through getting dressed, Carol Googled “Les Halles.”

   “They’re open until 7:30 tonight, Reid.”

   “Well, they didn’t have Google in 1971,” I said, apropo of nothing.

   As it happened, I was up and ready to go long before Carol this day. 

   It was going to be another laid back one too. We had an early lunch in the apartment, and then took a walk to case out our next address. Carol was not overly impressed at first sight with our current digs, and had booked a new place for our next few days in Tours. 

   Two things happened in the interim. The current place kind of grew on Carol, and the forecast indicated temperatures reaching into the high 90s and even 100 over the next few days. The new place was three floors up and was not air conditioned. It was close to the tram line, however, so as Carol mulled other possibilities for our next move, including, staying put where we were, we hopped aboard the tram and took it to its other terminus past the edge of town. 

   (This is where most reputable travel writers would share distinctive features of the environs as the tram passed by them, or recount an amusing anecdote that occurred with a local citizen on the tram. As I’ve promised you in the past, you’ll not be subjected to any of that from me. The point of the tram ride was to go to the end, and when we got there, we turned around and rode it back. If you’re asking yourself, “why am I reading this?” I really can’t help you. If you enjoy riding the rails, and staring blankly out the window, well, you’ve just done it.)

   From the tram, we made our way to Les Halles for the meatballs, watermelon and some of that comté cheese, and then on to the statutory stop for wine. We were home in time for a nap, but it never materialized. After our much anticipated spaghetti dinner (the fresh pasta from the street vegetable market and the Les Halles meatballs did not disappointment, but did approach the sin of gluttony), we settled in for the night with a viewing of Before Midnight, the disturbingly baleful final chapter of Linklater’s trilogy of love and it’s triumph and defeat. 

   I suggested a nightcap after the movie, and to my great surprise, Carol took me up on it. We hit the “Plum” square, which was electric with energy. And then found an offshoot of Gen X,Y and Z bars that was nothing short of Bourbon Street on Mardi Gras night. As members of Gen B.C. (from their perspective anyway) we took our leave. But we were becoming nightowls, at least, compared to back home. There is something useful to come out of sleeping till noon, it would seem.