It was cold, bitter and cold, when the A train finally pulled up, creaky and tired, at 135th Street, but round the corner at Maud’s it was warm and smelled of, oh, so many things, stewed prunes and sweet pears and honey onions and chicken tagine and mostly happiness.



I don’t even remember now what exactly we were laughing so madly about, me and Jazon and Guillaume and Florence and Maud and Philippe, there was la belgitude; miroirs d’encre; Didier Didier; ça pue; tu pues; le surréalisme breton; Rousseau, citoyen de Bruxelles; miroirs d’encre one more time for good measure; at one point there were tears it was such insanity and it just kept getting funnier.



We ate and ate, and then we ate some more, chocolate cake and orange-cinnamon salad and coffee (with whole milk) and tea. And then I had to go ’round midnight, ’cause of being in samurai mode for school, but not before Maud gave me four compilation CDs in a tin that said “Smoking Master” and a chocolate cake of my own, and not before Jazon, unprovoked, said I looked like a a Sixties mod yé-yé girl, Jazon we like you a lot.



This morning it is sun and toasted crumpets and “La Vie en rose,” and maybe even chocolate cake for second breakfast, hot damn life is good.