Thursday evenin'

            “So I got your text. Yeah you’re welcome to come to a friends party. Its themed so deguse-toi.”

            “Sweet I’ll be over ‘round ten.”

            In bitter disregard of the tram I turn right. Mounting a personal protest against that Bordelaise rail. My Senegalese stand never fails to conjure ancient memories I’ll never know. It smells delicious too. Martinique is always open beckoning to drop by for a chat and offering a small tub of tabouli. You’re in a foreign state when 10^o C feels toasty. At Quinqonnces, I begin to worry about the unfolding evening. Another French venue, with only small acquaintances; moral fiber anyone, I forgot to take my vitamins this morning. Here we go. Jeremy is a buddy I met last year in San Diego while he was on his journeys abroad. We finally met-up as he’s been busy. That sounds familiar. Last year’s thirty-hour workweek on top of a full course load quickly flushed itself over my memories. Now the roles have changed. I pass through a more lively part of town the rue Victor Hugo running through it. Spice, grease, and thick accents fill the air. Halal is on the menu. I reach 1, Victor Hugo and after the buzz, I mount the stairs to meet Jeremy, a roommate and Jeremy’s 12-year-old brother. The Italian serves the coffee, while we discuss out our winning costumes.

            Back out to the spiciness to grab beers from the friendly North African while the 12-year-old lights up a cigarette. “Wow, they sure do start ‘em young out here”, I judged. “What does it matter that he grabs a big Heineken as well.”

            We arrive sporting case, a bottle, backward caps and clothing, including, awkwardly enough, pants. The story was we were an American television show called ”Backwards”. When Ugly Betty asked, “When did the show arrive,” I was quickly and accurately able to say “the late 50’s.” Needless to say we didn’t win. A German squad of Les Simpsons took the rosé trophy. The music is American, the language French, the culture Bordelaise, and the students of Sciences Po.

            Turns out Jeremy’s little brother is 18 and in culinary management school. The world is much clearer without thinking.