It's official. It's chronic. We can't stop.
I woke up at two today, lounged around in the bed for awhile giggling and acting like I was fifteen for awhile with the Boy. He put on some Koffi Olimode and started dancing around the house naked. We ate breakfast at lunchtime and said, as the light was pouring in through the living room window, "Why not go sit out on the terrace again?" As if were our own personal terrace.
Basquiat, my oldest and most faithful plant, is growing to enormous proportions. He keeps bending toward the light. Boy doesn't believe that plants do this, but I tell him that plants need light just as humans need water. Look at Jezebel - she keeps leaning towards the sunlight as well. True, true, he says.
So we head out to our adopted terrace. I get coffee, he gets beer. Again. People walk by. We talk about them. K calls, she swings by. We have more coffee with her. Boy leaves to do work. K and I stay. We order a lot of beverages. Down South Baby shows up. More drinkee. Italian Mama Mia comes to meet us an hour or so later. Even more drinkee. Why do they keep bringing us more peanuts? We have had enough beverage, but we order more. Peanuts come with each round. The waiter makes an "Oh La La" face and the four of us giggle. We keep mixing up our words. French, Spanish, English, who gives a shit what language we speak in? We all get our point across somehow.
It's 10 pm. Maybe we should eat something. I've been sitting at this cafe since four in the afternoon. That means it's been six hours. Shit. That's the definition of vacation. Nothing but sitting, talking, and pointing out the people passing us by. Life passing me by for a bit. Go ahead, Life, I'll just watch you and giggle and smile as the memories and thoughts run by, walk by, roll by, come back again, come talk to me, smile back at me, laugh at someone else, fall to the ground, get back up again, and order another round.
Yes, I'll call the Boy. He's up at the house. It's less than a block away. We all go to a restaurant. Sorry, we're closed. Who refuses five customers at 10.30 at night? Lazy ass mother fuckers, that's who.
No matter, we're off to another place. The cook there likes African music. Ha ha ha. He tells us about the maquis outside Paris - the soir�es africaines. The Boy and him are on a first name basis by now. We order cider. The bottles are called "Magnums." The five of us finish off two. They're called Magnums for a reason. We switch languages - Italian Mama Mia speaks to the Down South Baby in Spanish. Sometimes I follow and I think of the word in English. How do you say that in French? Let's ask the Boy. Oh, of course! "La Mousse!" (the head of a beer, not the dessert)
I love vacation so much that my gut is hanging out and I can't even remember what the hell my point was. May I never forget how great that feels.