Insistent, a quiet, rumbly thunder woke me up in the morning blue. I was thinking about a boy.

So we’re at Maud’s place on rue du Buisson St. Louis in the Tenth, and somehow there’s a durian in the kitchen, and suddenly I’m alone at the table singing Eric Carmen’s “All By Myself” and everyone else is on the other side of the room debating if it’s more like rotten leeks or onions or papaya or tuna salad left in the sun, and now India’s crying.

Okay, back up. So Maud and I are walking down the street, coming from our émission spéciale on Gab’s radio station, and we’re hungry, and there’re all these Chinese Vietnamese epicieries, and so clearly we need to buy a durian, ’cause Maud’s never tried one, and okay, sure, why not. Why not turns out to be because it costs twenty euros, but we hand over the cash anyway and lug the mutha home. I think Maud may have a sense of je regrette right after we plunge a big knife through the spiky armor and split the fruit open—“It looks like brains, it looks like aliens, it looks like snort” she moans through strokeface—but she tries it anyway, face scrunched up, and then quickly washes her mouth out. India takes more persuading, but eventually takes some of the yellow flesh in her mouth, and then quickly moves on to a bowl of mint tea. I forget to warn the girls about durian burp, but they discover the phenomenon on their own. Surprise!

I leave Paris tomorrow, c’est chiant, j’suis grincheuse, c’est pas du tout cool, tu vois? A week ago this time we were driving to Maud’s country house in Prades, and when we arrived there was hot soup on the table, and salad from the garden, and cheese, and the best rhubarb tart ever. The week of paradise, the drives at mad speed curving through the hills, les cows!, le swimming in the lake, singing into the wind, falling asleep in the sun, louche comme louche, the secret florentins, le WC dehors, les sorties grand-mères, Louis Prima and Bobby La Pointe and Supertramp and, always, les Strokes. Maud’s house, with its white iron gates and its driveway through the trees; the worn curving staircase right when you come in; the kitchen, always warm and smelling tasty—of chocolate cake or lamb couscous or steamed fish or gratin aux choufleurs or lemon tart—and dinners crowded around the long wooden table, cheeses always at the ready. In the mornings, the big room still smells of fire from the night before.



Like the dwarfs, we were seven. Clem—Timide—cute and sweet and the younger brother, master of the fire, master of the coffee, when we parted he said, “Putain, cette petite meuf.” Mais j’adore. After each meal, his clarion call: “Un petit café?” “Ouaaiis.” Maud, oh, but, Maud. C’est Prof, c’est clair. India—Grincheux—knitting by the fire. There was the night after dinner, in a chorus, we sang of her baking skillery. The next day, there was a lemon tart on the table, crowned with a ring of crushed pistachios. Schmio était Dormeur, who slept in later and later each day, and then went outside to sun. Part two of les amoureux, Mauro, l’espagnol, l’espaniard, lovely and smiling, c’est lui Simplet, who made a raw egg lemon-flavoured fake ice cream that could have killed us all, and one day at Shopi returned to the shopping cart, inexplicably, triumphant with a cauliflower. Gabriel, Atchoom, allergic to every bit of nature around us, the fat peonies, the sweet roses, the trees years old, the thick grass dotted with daisies and yellow dandelions. Gab with the langourous eyes, the messy curls, the smile like you share a secret. Le foot under a deep blue blanket, a Kinder egg broken into two at Shrek en français in Aurillac, chords on the grand piano before being called to dinner.

I think I have to go now, there is a couscous dinner in the plans. Good-bye France, ç’a été trop bon, mais trop too much. À toute. . .

The thing about blogging in Paris is that then you are blogging in Paris instead of, I dunno, doing anything else out and about in Paris. Inside: hot, with bespectacled thirteen-year-old boys playing games on linked computers and yelling, at various intervals, “À la style Matrix!” and “Merde!!” and “Je meurs dans le Matrix!” and, I swear this is true, “Ai-yi-yi-yi-yi-caramba!!” Outside: blue skies and sunny sun and Berthillon ice creams and sorbets everyday—blackberry today, pear yesterday, Gianduja chocolate with orange peel the day before; a succulent sandwich grec-frites-salade in the back of some greasy hole-in-the-wall in the Bastille; a crêpe Nutella-banane, before a fat slice of hot banana covered in Nutella fell on my nice blue dress; afternoon tea at Fauchon as if we are Japanese ladies; a panino jambon-fromage-tomate with the birds in a shady spot at the Jardin de Luxembourg; the unexpected treat of a petit macaron cassis-violette from Ladurée, a sweet, cool round of heaven on a hot day; so many cafés crèmes at so many cafés.

Also outside is: hanging out in the Marais looking at the cute boys and their cute sneakers; shopping for groceries at Monoprix like I live here; being hit on by French boys while buying sweet red cherries at the market. All good things. Abrupt, sorry, have to go, out of internet café money.

So much white hair, grey hair, no hair. High-waisted pants. Spectacles on strings. Knitting, sitting. Silent dinners.

Rain all day. A man plays the accordion in the Horisont salong while the rain streams down the glass panes. We pull up to the docks at Bronnoysund, the rain making the town an Impressionist painting of blues and reds and greys, splotches of muted green in the background.

Yesterday evening, an excursion in the Lofoten, driving through so many little fishing villages: Svolvaer and Henningsvaer and Borge and Stamsund. Mountains and valleys and trees and rocks, and bright dandelions everywhere. At Henningsvaer, racks and racks of cod hanging to dry while the gulls, foiled, circled above the netting.

At Stokmarknes yesterday afternoon, we got off the ship to a sharp scent of salted fish. Nyup, nyup, nyup. An hour on land is enough time to walk into town, poke around in the local supermarket to look at packaging—like the bright pink box of “God morgen” eggs—and pop into a bakeri for a slice of cake: “What's this?” “Something-somethingkaka.” “Uhm.” “It means ‘world’s best cake.’” “Oh!” “Is it the world’s best cake?” A look of are-you-screwing-with-me. “Yes.” “. . .” “I’ll take it!!” Later that night, the world’s best cake and a cup of hot blackcurrant tea. Light, and vanilla. Mowmy said it was like eating clouds.

Late at night on the MS Midnatsol, a turtlelike man in a straw boater plays the electronic keyboard and sings a wavering tune, what I suppose is a Norwegian oldie but goodie. On the patch of linoleum, two couples, themselves oldies but goodies, twirl in the yellow light and cigarette smoke.

I am just done with breakfast on the MS Midnatsol (Midnight Sun), this coastal steamer taking us south from Harstad to Trondheim. The breakfasts, oh, the breakfasts. You hear “Norway,” you don’t immediately think “breakfast”—but you should. Four-grain breads and Wasa crispbread, soft-boiled eggs and caviar paste, herring, herring, herring. Also, geitost, a local goat’s cheese that is brown like caramel and sweet like caramel. Mmm. If you are lucky, you can eat it with fresh berries on a Wasa cracker. If you are less lucky, you eat it with jam on a Wasa cracker. Either way, you are plenty lucky.

Arrived in Oslo four days ago. Upon entering Ah Khim Ee-ee’s Oscars gate flat, she said: “Would you like some toast and smoked mackerel? or smoked herring? or smoked cod? or—” I mean, well, “Yes!” Then a walk in Vigeland Park with Mowmy, where a smellicious grilled chicken symphony filled the air, and the Oslo Swing Club danced the evening away.



Oslo is full of surprising things, like the Kon-Tiki Museet—an intriguing tribute to the very blond, very tanned Thor Heyerdahl—the Frammuseet, dedicated to the boat (that would be the Fram) that sailed to both the North and South poles—and the open-air Norsk Folkemuseum, which is a landscape of seventeenth-, eighteenth-, and nineteenth-century villages and towns. We entered a 1650 farmhouse and were taken by surprise when dude in costume rose from reading in a dark corner to welcome us. “Are you mad? I am your seventeenth-century farmer.” Then he saw Mowmy’s SLR, and got quite excited talking about his Nikon.

Thursday after a sugar brioche and a bowl of mocha at the Apent Bakeri on Colbjornsensgate, a quick jaunt down Karl Johans for a look-see and then speeding along, luggage in hand, to catch the train to the bus to the plane to Harstad. Funny thing about not finding a place on the map, sometimes it turns out said place is above the Arctic Circle. And me with a bag of summer clothes. Where Oslo was all blue skies and sunny sun and warm skin, Harstad was grey and drizzling and chillywilly. Hands shoved in pockets, walk out on the pier where a curious seagull is a spot of bright white against the shades of grey.