Hergest Ridge

Parlez-vous français? Non.

I beat all the little brats to school. Not that they were trying hard to beat me. To the contrary, most of them looked like they were running the other way. Youth might after all be wasted on the young.

The doors of the pharmacy opened, and once again I stood in Paris. French sound bites echoing, a foreign track beyond understanding only audible and experienced by one. Everyone else was still in Winnipeg, their minds on a siesta waiting for the protection from the heat that the evening shadow might offer.

This might be a new jaunt that ends all too soon, or a grand excursion that breaks through another layer of not understanding. I look forward to either.