Nothing too crazy. Nothing too terrible.
But as I sit here, Sunday night, relaxed and maybe a little bit tan, I feel as though I have had a pretty stellar weekend. I lived. I tried some new stuff. I was enough of an adult to watch a sports game all alone in a bar and not die. I rode a bike in crazy traffic, and none of us got hit by a bus! (Just close calls.) I took care of myself when I felt bad. Not a big deal.
Today, when I left to go biking, I walked through the Champ du Mars. They have turned the fountains on again, and there was this hound who was leaping through the spray. He would dive into the fountain after a ball, splash around, and then climb out and race away. Eventually he'd trot back to his lady, and she'd toss the ball back in. He was absolutely the happiest dog possible at that moment. And I got weirdly choked up with something like gratitude, or peace, or jealousy, or something. And I just thought to myself, "I am overwhelming lucky." Or the equivalent to that.
Anyway. Nothing was special about this weekend. Or really, everything was.
falafel from L'As du Fallafel (obvs the best one in the Marais)
right on, graffiti, right on
band and dancers on the quay
planning to spend next weekend here, on the tip of Île de la Cité
what's up, baby