Manon (Mary) and I, sat in the Tuileries gardens, by the Louvre Museum. Her 7 month old daughter, Devyn, on a blanket in the grass, was earnestly practicing a roll from her tummy to her back - of course, we coo’d and applauded each success.

We’d been girls together, years ago, in 5th and 6th grade - we were ‘like thieves at a fair’ back then - playing ‘la marelle’ (hopscotch) and pétanque until the boys, in early exercise of their ‘penised privilege’ ran us off the court, scattering us like birds.

She wrote me off a few years ago. But to be fair, I was missing. Growing up, my family moved around like we were on the run. I’d come back to Paris some summers and we’d check-in, but summer schedules are ephemeral and years turned into distance and a seemingly permanent silence.

Her last voice message, from 2017, is still on my phone, her voice bright, cheerful and expectant. I listen to it every once in a while, holding my phone to my ear, like a private seashell.

I was moved to China, where I’m told - thank you, Grandmère - I picked up a brash, incisive, Cantonese, ‘overly-direct’ manor, while Manon,went on to Institut Villa Pierrefeu, a finishing school in Switzerland.

Her hands move like ballerinas, her voice is as clear and refined as
Baccarat crystal, her look - bixie-cut chestnut brown hair, a white, Fontaine Zuave shirt over black, ME+EM Italian Linen Wide-Leg Trousers with Keds canvas sneakers, is Parisian simple and elegant and her posture is effortlessly perfect - she makes me feel like a scrub in my black Beatles t-shirt and jeans.

I passed Manon on an escalator, two days ago in Le Bon Marché.
I was going up, she was going down, with this little Devyn doll on her hip. The little firecracker I’d only seen on Instagram was dynamite in person. Her little expressions are bright-eyed and somehow familiar, their laughs - mother and daughter - are the same, rolling, lilting trills I know by heart.

My watch showed 69°f as we sprawled picnicking on a tree-lined embankment of the slithering green Seine. Rain clouds were gathering to the south - the river acts like a compass -which can be handy. Looking back on friendships is fun, but now we’re looking forward - which feels like home.
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Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
My Old School by Steely Dan
Angel by Sarah McLachlan

I hadn’t thought about it much.
Uptime.
But uptime is important
and not just with lovers.
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A song for this:
golden hour by JVKE

I should’ve had a hedonistic summer, a roundup of long, sun-kissed days and even longer, undulant, kissing nights.

There are no riviera pics this year - set against the blow-out backdrop of Saint Tropez or Heraclee - with their sunlit-deliriums, cracked plaster beach bars, aromatic trailing Jasmine, lavender, umbrella pines and baking Socca.

No nights of dense, optimistic nihilism on neon-painted open-air dancefloors, or gritty, underground raves, in dark, brick-clad, light-strobed basements.

And no timeless, sun-drenched, beachside early mornings, with their moments of stillness, beauty and reprieve.

Summer feels can’t be vicarious - you have to get out there and get *****, hmm, sandy anyway. Are there ethical implications to basking under a climate-crisis sun? Maybe, but if so, do we care?

Let’s wax poetic..

Summertime often sees us jetting off to different places.

If I could travel anywhere
let it be outer-space
not floating in darkness,
for years and years
let’s find a better way.

I’ve traveled to the moon
- on a little friction -
that isn’t even science fiction.

I’ve traveled simply by turning pages.
It didn’t take fuel and it didn’t take ages.

That was travel at the speed of thought,
but better yet, let’s travel at the speed of sight
- that’s faster than light.
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Songs for this:
Relationships by HAIM
Summer Sun by Koop
Summer Girl (Bonus Track) by HAIM

Suddenly, the 502s were back
those unexpected disconnects
that make posting whack
and my nerves a wreck

Like blank spots in time
that made me backtrack
unable to use rhymes
I felt trapped and  highjacked

Did the server choke on a bone?
Was 5G stalling me, wordless and postponed?
Did the firewall collapse, did DNS lapse?
Was it my laptop, was it my phone?

People watched me, on the metro,
as I frowned and moaned at my useless iPhone.
The issues seemed flagrant, I was becoming impatient
Was I some kind of nut? I was showing emotion.
We don’t DO that in Paris - have public implosions.

Did it happen to you?
Or was I one of a few.
What were the chances
that it only happened to poets in France?
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Song for this:
Alone Again (Naturally) by Gilbert O'Sullivan
La Vie en Rose by Allison Adams Tucker

The last three weeks have been a seemingly endless series of welcome parties, get-togethers, receptions, meet-and-greets and cocktail parties - every kind of cheesy or ostentatious soirée my Grandmère can throw together, she’s dragged me to. It’s hard to match her energy.

“You have to meet people,” she insists, “and they have to meet YOU.”
“And why?” I asked, eloquently, but there’s no use resisting - she’s tireless.

The Prime Minister of France - met him. The mayor of Paris, met him, the CEOs of Paribas, L’Oréal, TotalEnergies, AXA, met them, the ministers of the economy, interior and foreign affairs - met ‘em. The US ambassador to France, met him.

In the play “My Fair Lady,” Eliza, meeting people frantically at the races, repeats “How do you do,” over and over and over to great comedic effect. That’s how I feel at these parties, “Enchanté, enchanté, enchanté, enchanté, enchanté.” I say, turning in circles. I’ve met Emmanuel Macron before, but I’m sure I’ll be seeing him again soon. I haven’t met his wife though - I’d love to ask her about that slap.. hhmm.

At these events she’s made sure that I’ve met anyone who’s anyone at Université Paris Cité. Is that surprising? No, because that’s how crazy-lady operates. “You meet everyone, eye-to-eye,” she lectures, “you have to get out of your bubble, and experience the world as interesting,”

That’s her favorite saying these days. “I don’t HAVE a bubble,” I replied, defensively, but she’s left the room - she’s never still. She seems to know we’re on the clock, that once med-school starts, (in September) I’m going to be all about that.

It’s Monday morning. I’ve been at the Shangri-La hotel pool, where we have full privileges, and I’m coated, like a potato, head to foot, with SPF 50 sunscreen - when who shows up?
Peter (my bf). “You’re early!” I say, not at all displeased, but I’m SO conscious of my tacky skin and chemical smell that I face-palm him as he comes in for a snog.
EEuuww. I can’t make-out with a guy when I’m all greased up.
“5 minutes,” I assured him, heading for the shower.
“I’ll join you,” he offered.
“Well, ok,” I chuckle.
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Songs for this:
Better Days by NEIKED, Mae Muller & Polo G
This Girl by Kungs & Cookin' On 3 Burners
Cake By The Ocean by DNCE  [E]

I’ve spent the last couple of weeks in Paris settling in. My every appliance, gadget and charger have been bricked by the weird, French electricity, which bobs when it should weave or something - but you still can’t stick a fork in the sockets.

I’ve also been meandering the right bank* arrondissements for fashions. Students at Université Paris Cité, in the everyday, dress more chicly and elegantly than Yalies or nerdy Harvard ‘barneys.’

I’ve noticed a lot of Asian, selfie-taking tourists in Paris. They come in like waves of invaders as the river-cruises dock. Now, anyone that’s known me for some time, will tell you that my friends and I’ve been taking selfies for decades.

Just not in the middle of the street or with total strangers trying to relax on crisp, cool, early summer morning, while sipping an espresso hangover cure. Was COVID deadly? Well, it certainly killed off the last etiquettes that separated us from the animals.

I’m not anti-tourist - nope -  I just moved back here myself - but these smiling, terribly polite, middle-aged people, think nothing of stopping someone abruptly in the street to ask directions, in a foreign language - as if they’re at Tokyo-Disneyland where the locals are cast members simulating real life.

Would you expect anyone on a busy, work-a-day Manhattan street to happily stop and converse? Not a chance. Women would recoil like snakes and the men would dodge like O.J Simpson or shoulder you to the ground. Still, they call Parisians rude.

I am becoming more serpentine and evasive as I shop, as-if I were a spy in occupied territory. Charles and I form a one-man phalanx, with me following in his wake, like a dolphin trailing along a great ship.

They may need to put up signage, like, “Look (at the locals) but don’t touch,” but in what language?

Let’s wax free-versely… freever-ishly?

It’s a pleasure to walk the banks
of the dark, reflective Saine again.
and watch the warm, evenings for
the first cool stirrings of fall.

Once you’ve visited Paris, it stays with you.
Nothing’s simple here, not the moonlight,
the serene european atmosphere or
the better-than-you sense of right and wrong.

I’m young in a very old city.
I like dessert crawls, and “rock’n’roll clubs.”
Hemingway wrote, that
‘‘You receive in return what you bring to Paris.’

That’s probably not an exact quote.
but I think that’s where they got “What happens in Vegas.”
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Songs for this:
Come to Me by Koop
Leena by Caravan Palace
Right Now by The Creatures

I’ve met a couple of second-year med students.
I thought I was organized but apparently, I’ve just scratched the surface.
Everyone uses Google calendar “GCal” - for EVERYTHING,
and I’ve seen it, their days are packed - bye-bye ‘free time.’

Want to grab lunch, hang-out or even hook-up with someone?
Check their GCal and send them an invite.

(poem time!)..

GCal flex 💻✨

I got the word 💬 At first 🎬 I was lowkey sus 🤨
could it be thus ⁉️ but they offered proof 💯

GCal 💻 runs 🏃🏼‍♀️‍➡️the superiority complex 🏫
everyone keeps-it-g 💻✨connectedly 👭

AI puts our schedule 📆🕰️ in GCal 💻 form,
so right away ⛗ 🏁, we’re ½ 🌓 way home 🏠

The typical school day = 12 hrs 📅
Save your brain, let GCal 💻✨be 🐝 the boss 🧠➡️💤

Sleep 😴, snacks 🍕, 5-mi walk 🚶♀️— got it on lock 🔒
No wingin’ it 🚫, just colored blocks ⬛️ all on the clock 🕒

So, freshie AV 👩🎓 will get a ping 📱— “Come chill?” 🛋️
I’ll click yes ✔️, cause it’s just the drill 🔬

“Share lunch?” 🍽️ Invite sent ✉️
Netflix and chill 🍿? Event alert! 🚨

Invite a romantic move 💌 “Hook up?” 11:30 PM 🪛🌙
You never ♾️ know, he 💁‍♂️/she 💁‍♀️ might accept 🔩 ☔

Maybe GCal  💻 love is 💔 or lit 🔥, but dating’s doomed 💀,
in the calculus of m-school scheduling 🗓️🙅♀️, so just move 🚛 on

In med-school ​​📚, we’re like a team 🖇️, we need to be tight 🗜️,
we’re all 👥 on the clock ⏰, and nothing 🫙 can be left to chance 🎲.
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Songs for this:
Closer (feat. Halsey) by The Chainsmokers
I Ain't Worried by OneRepublic
Levitating (feat. DaBaby) by Dua Lipa
Calendar by Paris Combo