Sunday bloody sunday. You know you’re young if the morning after having collapsed on your friend’s bathroom floor you feel all sparkling and cool. Well, at least I’m young. But, according to the evidence, my thirty-something years old cousin E is way younger than me. At 9.30 she  rang at the door and, as soon as C opened the door, the Tazmanian Devil entered the room, opened the windows letting:

- 100.000 volts sunrays enter our eyeballs

-  a gateau au framboise enter our throath

-1.000.000 words enter our soaring ears

 In about 10 minutes we were all dressed up and ready to go ( everyone except C, that stood home struggling with an aching teeth. It’s moving observing a  man and its relationship with his aching teeth. They have their indipendent lives, but still they influence each other, a little like Woody Allen and Mia Farrow at the old times).

…to be continued

In the desperate effort to ease the digestion of tandoori-Ganesh-knows-what that we had had in the Indian quarter, we headed to the Paris Mosquee to meet C’s best friend V for a shisha. Smoking the shisha together is, for the three of us, a little like buiding sticks huts for the three little pigs, but it felt a little strange for me experiencing my friends of the “Alexandria period” ( we spent 2 weeks together in Egypt organising a training session on blogs addressed to Mediterranean women journalists. You should have seen them, the only men in a total-girly envoronment…their satanic look, as a kid in a candy shop…anyway) in their everyday environment. When, after a long, pleasent walk across the Jardins de Plantes ( wow!) we got to the Musquee, V., his cell phone in one hand, the other one hand scribbling something on a notebook, was ACTUALLY working.

After having smoked our ass out remembering the old good times, P. decided to continue our tour in the Paris you don’t expect: we grabbed a metro till Place d’Italie, and then we walked all the way till the hugest Chinatown I’ve ever seen. We politely refused when P. proposed to sit somewhere and have some Chinese soup ( it was 6.00 pm, for Buddha’s sake!..or saké..), and we wondered like 4 Alices in Wonderland in some crowdy, funny-smelling shops, looking for some ( any) furniture to put in C’ apartment and for those nice porcelain cats that say hallo! with the hand.

On our way home ( the bus passed by Notre Dame, and we couldn’t help to say Oh! as always happens when you pass by Notre Dame), we went to the Monoprix ( huge French Supermarket) to get some very french Cheese, very French paté and very Italian Negroni ( aweful cocktail that tastes like gas) and we rushed home for our Parisian dinner.

I have very cloudy souvenirs of what happened after my 6th Negroni, but I can still feel the happiness I felt being surrounded by my friends, lying in C’s bathroom floor.