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Peter had to fly,
was that just last night?
I have attachment issues.
I hate saying goodbye
- it always makes me cry
an embarrassing tear or two.

Holidays go so fast
relativity’s been proven at last!
Fourteen days of leisure
of sordid intertwined pleasures
on days free of study pressures.

This morning i was in despair
splayed out on an uncomfortable chair
with tangled, unbrushed hair
wearing faded PowerPuff underwear
bored, and wishing Peter was there.
“22½ euros for a Martini,” Peter remarked, when he first scanned the menu.
“It’s not like we aren’t going to get them,” I said, “we’re not going to cheap our way to abstinence." The waiter came and I gave him my card, “Put that table on this card too, please,” (pointing to Charles’s table).

It’s a cool night in Paris and doof-doof music’s slammin’ from a stack of Mackie DJs. It’s about 53°f, but they have those umbrella heaters at every table and other heaters that blew warmer air on the dance floor (maybe not a great idea). Peter and I have a table on the terrace, out under a muted, light polluted starfield.

We danced, we debated the issues of the day, like, when will Taylor dump Kelcie and what were the best Oscar movies? (We chose ‘Poor Things’ and ‘Past Lives’). We ate Steak au Poivre with Red Wine Sauce and then we danced some more. We were having fun.

But when a party turns into ***** mayhem it’s time to leave - or is it? Watching the shadowy edges of things, I asked Peter, “It’s getting CrAzY, wanna go?”
“It’s just getting interesting,” he answered.
I squinted at him, was he serious? I couldn’t tell - martinis scramble my amygdala.
I decided to flow with it. “Ok, freak, get me another then.” I said, calling his bluff, and sliding my glass his way.
As he left for the bar, I glanced at my watch, 2am. It felt like 10 pm to us American east-coasters.

I looked around and Charles and Chinthia (Mrs.Charles) were laughing and chatting away.
‘You GO, old people,’ I thought - not unkindly.
Peter came back, two martinis in one hand, snapping pics with the other.
“Stop!” I barked, holding my hands up like I was fighting off paparazzi, “stop!”
I’ve learned things, like how, in early pics, when we arrive at a party, I look like Mary Poppins - but in end-of-party pix l look like Norma Desmond. Peter doesn’t see it  - but I do.

I sipped at my new drink - It tasted sour and bitter as sin - I made a face. Peter cackled like a villain in a low budget flick. “It’s a Winston Churchill,” he reported knowingly, “they were out of vermouth.”

When the bar runs out of vermouth, it means something. I pressed the walkie-talkie app on my watch and asked Charles, “You guys ready to go?” He didn’t look around but gave me a thumbs-up just before they rose.

My mom and (step)dad have joined us, at Grandmère’s, for this vacation. I was gleeful, at first, but it’s like my mom hasn’t noticed I’m not in high school anymore - that I grew-up in their three-year absence. I get pressed when she thinks I’m slouching, rearranged when my hair’s out of place and shown a pained, icy face if I order a martini.

She’s piercing the membrane of my privacy and expecting obeisance! I tried to explain it, like an adult. “There are multiple value systems,” I gently reminded her. My Grandmère even suggested Peter move into his own room. Luckily, Peter and my rooms adjoin and she put my parents on another floor (in the suite she grew up in).

I’m secretly afraid they’ll be up when we get in, that it’s 10pm for them too and I’ll get ‘the face.’ I told Charles about my situation and he said, “Look, she’s missed you, she’s just lavishing you with attention, she’ll relax,” but his oceanic optimism seems.. hopeful. We’ll see ??
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Obeisance: an acknowledgement of another’s superiority.

doof-doof = a type of ‘HardTrance’ music
Mackie DJs = a favorite brand of speakers used by party DJs

our cast
My Grandmère = grandmother (in French)

Peter, my bf, a physicist who works at CERN, in Geneva. His job’s to break things and see what happens. We’ve been ‘together’ for about 2 years - I use ‘together’ loosely because, well, Geneva and New Haven.

Step (Stepfather) is an invasive cardiologist, he and my mom have been married for eleven years. He’s my dad v2.0

My mom is an anesthesiologist - they tend to be perfectionists. She has three children - one is a surgeon (my sister Annick), one is in med-school (my brother Brice) and then there’s me - the weak link - she’s heavily ‘invested’ in my absolute everything.

Charles and Chinthia - Charles, a retired NYC cop, is my long time escort, driver and surrogate parent. Cynthia, his wife of six years, (also an ex-cop) is a VP for a cyber-security company.

Norma Desmond = faded star in “Sunset Boulevard' (a must see movie)
Anais Vionet Dec 2023
We’re in NYC - at last - on Christmas vacation, and it feels like a pardon.

It’s amazing what can happen in just a few wild and change-filled hours. One minute, seemingly, you’re in a picture postcard rural-scape (I think campus fits that), where crickets choir in rhythm, and the next you're in a Manhattan high-rise 50th floor kitchen, eating Fruity Pebbles for breakfast and looking down on man's lesser creations.

It’s 9am, 37° and clear this morning. Central Park looks bright and multicolored, like the lonely rectangle of nature was determined to spend its last fall day in spectacle. The sun’s glowing too, warming the earth with the glory of heaven. Its beams are so bright and crisp, that even the deeper shadows seem fair.

“I think I just saw a UFO,” I said to no one in particular, a second after something whizzed by the kitchen window.
“A UAP,” Leeza (Lisa’s 14 yo sister) corrected me, “and it was a helicopter,” she updogged.
“Then it wasn’t a UAP?” I asked, as if confused.
Leeza carefully selected a blue pebble-flake and flicked it at me - I ducked - because she can be deadly accurate with those things.
Leeza gets prettier every time I see her, she has deep-dark, wavy red hair brushed with copper highlights, green eyes and the coltish beauty of adolescence. She’s taller than me now, which seems somehow unfair.

Lisa’s front door chimed, and two voices called “Morning!” It was Will & Karen, two friends who live with the poor people down on the 46th floor. “Morning!” They repeated again, as they came into the kitchen. Will’s 20 and Karen’s a salty 12. Since Lisa’s mom is named Karen too, I’m going to shorten 12-yo Karen’s name to Kay.
“What’s for breakfast?” Will asked, looking around. Kay, a slim, waif-like pixie with jet-black hair, went over to Leeza, opening her mouth like a little bird and Leeza fed her a spoonful of Fruity Pebbles and milk as if practiced.

The morning I met Kay, two years ago (when she was 10), she offhandedly told me Will ‘liked’ me. While nothing ever came of that - we’re just friends - I always feel kind of ‘attractive’ around him - you know what I mean? Like I hold the jewel of his esteem. I mention that, because Lisa and I made an early start, abandoning morning vanities for a 7am hop-over Long Island Sound. I probably look like something evolution hasn’t bothered with - but let’s bowdlerize that.

Lisa’s in the living room rearranging the presents - it’s her job as the official head-elf. When Lisa and I came in, Leeza grabbed me by the hand, dragging me towards the guest bedroom, “Look at all the packages,” She marveled.
“Maybe I got carried away,” I admitted, looking at them for the first time.
“You’re obsessive,” she pronounced. “Ya think,” I snarked, “have we met?” I asked jokingly, while offering her my hand as if in introduction.

We’re going shopping in a bit - as soon as Charles gets back from settling in at the Ritz Carlton (about a block away). We want the fevered and manic NYC-Christmas shopping experience - the chill air, the gabble and fuss of the crowds and the joy of the season passing person to person, like bacteria trading plasmids.
.
.
Like Christmas tunes?
Stream one or two of MY (free) unique Christmas playlists.
Enjoy, and Merry Christmas!

http://daweb.us/xmas/
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Bowdlerize: editing or abridging content.
SUNDARAM SARMA Oct 2023
It takes considerable research to pick an ideal vacation spot,
The end result can be pleasantly surprising, more often than not,
Spain offers a multitude of choices that can be very exciting,
It is those small tucked-away towns that are the most enticing

Cadaques is a pretty Mediterranean location in Catalonia's Costa Brava,
It is a hippy seaside town akin to a hidden cove, that is no mere trivia,
Located on a small peninsula on the eastern side of sunny Spain,
It has all the trappings of an ideal getaway resort, with much to gain

It is the most inaccessible town north of Barcelona, though seductively beautiful,
The road winds through mountains replete with hairpin turns that are an eyeful,
Passing through cliffs one after the other, a rocky coastline is the final descent,
Entering the Spanish village with a breathtaking landscape, makes for rich accent

The idyllic setting, with unbeatable tourist infrastructure, is a veritable holiday haven,
For anyone looking to enjoy sun and sea, the attraction is like a piece of heaven,
The beach town gleaming above the cobalt-blue waters is a joyful sight to behold,
The allure of the windswept pebble beaches is so mesmerizing, if truth be told

The village is always teeming with tourists lazily walking the cobblestone streets,
The animated incessant Spanish chatter with exciting overtones is such an audible treat,
The blazing sun beating down all day from a spotlessly blue sky is never a deterrent,
To people of all ages sauntering the streets, joy writ on their faces, that is so apparent

Colorful sun umbrellas can be seen planted all along the beach, spicing up the milieu,
While the adventurous brave it out to get their suntan, unmindful of little else in view,
A dip in the clear blue water provides an exhilarating experience thro' the day,
The feeling is of total relaxation charting new frontiers, in a wholly different way

It goes without saying that Cadaques is a delightful town for the epicurious,
Restaurants abound in plenty, as they wow to whet the appetite of the curious,
Visitors flocking in droves at all times of the day, is such a common sight,
The menu dished out is of an irresistible variety - naturally, a gourmet's delight

Dozens of gelato shops can be seen virtually in every street,
The vast variety of flavors is mind boggling and an inviting treat,
Serpentine lines at each shop reflect the popularity of this delicacy,
Experimenting with combos is perhaps a fitting culminating fantasy

For strollers, the meandering lanes of Cadaques are an absolute delight,
The sloping by-lanes lined with shops on either side, are an interesting sight,
Skilled artisans flaunt their wares, with determined attempts to persist,
At the end of it all, the inclination to splurge, is undoubtedly difficult to resist

Spanish painter Salvadore Dali's house in Cadaques definitely merits an outing,
A walk around the house depicts his life in the village through his painting(s),
The scenic walk around the well-preserved grounds holds a lot of history,
That he was a tremendous inspiration to the locals, is of little mystery

Groups of people can always be seen walking from one end of the town to the other,
Animatedly chatting mundane and specifics that is delightfully difficult to decipher,
While the preponderance of Spanish locals is perceptible, global participation is nothing less,
It is this cosmopolitan aura that lends color to the charming town, stopping short of iconic-ness

The sound of lapping waves still rings in your ears long after you leave this quaint beach town,
You wish you could turn the clock back and dash back yet again as if making a U-turn,
It is this very quintessential charm that lures visitors to the hidden town with quiet coves,
Spread the message through word of mouth, that visiting such places merit many encores
Anais Vionet Oct 2023
In New Haven, Lisa misses the sad, dark, city aesthetics of her hometown. Its crime podcast vibe, actinic crime-lighting and sirens in the distance, that lull her to sleep like lullabies. She has a disturbingly romantic attraction to hustle, bright neon lights, skyscrapers, subways, crowded diversity and swirling dance clubs.

Yep, we were in NYC for fall break - a week-long escape from school. We head back to Yale tomorrow. We’ve been seeing the sights, Broadway shows at night, the views from great heights, restaurant delights and sisterly fights.

Lisa's sister (Leeza, 14) can’t sit still, she’s all theater kid energy. She started playing electric bass and desperately wants to be in a band. She’s taking bass lessons, has calluses on her little fingers, and plays it (silently) even as we watch TV. Calling it an obsession would minimize it.

We saw the Eras Tour movie, last night, in iMax and it’s hypnotizing. Better than RL? Maybe.
We’ve seen two Broadway shows too: “Six’, a modern retelling of the lives of the six wives of Henry VIII (don’t bother) and ‘Merrily We Roll Along’, (two thumbs up) Stephen Sondheim’s weakest play saved by the cast of Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe), and King George (Jonathan Groff).

Lisa, Leeza and I were talking, earlier in the week, about Autumn comfort foods. I described the joys of cassoulet, fondues and tartiflette (potatoes, cream, cheese, bacon, and onions delight) - three French favorites and Leeza said, snootily, “This is New York City,” like, ‘you can find anything here.’ It was a freakin’ challenge!

So, we’ve hit French restaurants all week in search of these treats. We each order one of the three and compare them. So far, La Sirene (south village) had the best cassoulet - although it had a crusty top - which is just - No. Mominette (Brooklyn) had the best Tartiflette but they all treat it like a side dish?? And The Lavaux wins best fondue. So book those flights now!

Lisa, Leeza and I were sharing the couch in their dad’s all-glass, 50th floor, corner study, that overlooks the city. The view makes me feel like an angel watching over mankind from the firmaments - if the firmaments feature the winking, blinking lights of jets landing at Newark Liberty, Teterboro and LaGuardia.

“So, how’s Fall semester been for you?” Lisa asked me. Of course, we’re roommates so she’s seen the more obvious events in my life, but we all have complicated, internal lives.
The subtext to her question, of course, is Peter and how I’m dealing with his absence, so far, this year. But I’m not ready to go there, and I frown.
“I’ve been seeing so many Tumbler compilations, she added, to save me from answering, “saying how the start of Fall Semester is a time of agony, pain and reflection.”
“And I think that’s real,” I interjected.
“How so?” Leeza asked - she LOVES the uni 411
“School can be harsh,” Lisa continued, “the sudden, hella work, and, of course, it’s breakup season on campus.”
“Oh, Yeah,” I agreed, “Being away from home and those certain ‘someone's’ for months can be rough on freshmen.” We all nodded in agreement.

“Has anyone been vibing to anything regularly?” I asked (musically).
“I’ve been bumpin’ to Pink Pantheress,” Leeza revealed, “I think people see her as a TikTok, one hit wonder, but I think she still slaps!”
“Yes!” Lisa exclaims, “I’ve had “Picture in my mind” on a loop.

The city looked like an exquisite, miniature, clockwork toy. How could someone not love it when seeing it the way God does? It’ll be even prettier at Thanksgiving - I'm crossing my fingers and hoping for snow.
Remember when…..
Barefoot running on a blacktop street
Lazy days
Summer heat
Swimming pools
summer vacation
There is no school
12 years old
To be again
One more time till the summer ends
Anais Vionet Jun 2023
I’m laughing this morning, spontaneously. We’re not studying anymore. Our sophomore school year is over. I’m giddy, giggling, like a 9 year old on sugar.

I think I just finished the hardest class that I’ll ever take - my last pure-math class, ever - and I got an “A.” Just barely - by two-tenths of a point (.2). That’s by the skin of a bacteria, the thickness of a sigh or the weight of a glance. Yeah, and I’ll take it very much.

We’re gathered, with two extra-large NY Pizza Supremas, around Lisa’s parent’s long, white kitchen island. Lisa and I parked on tall bar stools and Peter, lounging on a nearby couch. The playlist we’d had going, had just ended. We’re looping a lot of T.Swift because we’re going to see her in concert in TWO days (May 14th 2023). Leeza (Lisa’s 13 yo little sister) is here too - but she’s in a mood.

“You know what I want to hear?” I offered.
“What” Peter asked.
“The other side of the door” I said. Leeza groaned.
“OH MY GOD,” Lisa squealed, “ANAIS, Anais!!, I KNEW I loved you, I already knew!
Lisa turned to Peter, “Anais and I we, we have this string - some might call an invisible string”
“Yeah,” I laugh. “tying us to each other,” Lisa continued, laughing, “and sometimes I get so shocked when she reminds me it’s there.”  “right,” I agree.
“And you’re so real for that - it’s so true.” Lisa finishes by starting the song.

“Taylor Swift’s  “the other side of the door” plays, Leeza stomps out, taking half a pie and when the song finishes there’s silence.

“Wow” Lisa said. Peter looked up from wherever absurdly boring physics article he was reading.
“Sorry,” I told Peter, fanning myself, “we’re recovering. That song has the best outro in the business.”
“Cause you just expect a song to end on a chill fadeout” Lisa explains, “and end nicely.”
“This one just ends, BAM!” I laughed. “BAM!” Lisa echos, laughing as well.
“It’s trenchant - the little black dress - you just have to shake your hips every TIME,” I say.
“It eats, it eats every TIME,” Lisa agreed.
“It eats so much I forget he cheated on her!” I laugh, “I don’t even CARE!”
“I don’t even care,” Lisa chuckles, “in the outro,” she tells Peter, “she’s takin’ back her man because he got with some girl in a little black dress.”
“It’s a hard lyric,” I say, “the beautiful eyes, the conversations, the lies, are all I can think of.”  
“I like Taylor’s version the best,” Lisa said, “you get the emotional maturity and her voice is more mature.”

“Of course,” I said, “I grew up with that album - I think it came out in 2008 (I was 5) - but I remember, about two years ago, maybe three, I was in high school, some friends and I were driving to the lake and it was a full-on Swift-sing-along. We finished singing it, and I thought, “WOAH, that song EATS - how had I missed that?”
“I know,” Lisa echoed, “her music just hits at different stages of life and still comes off fresh.”
“Like someone discovering the Beatles,” Peter said, “who were - 60 years ago?”
“Yeah, or David,” I said. Peter looked confused.
“David - from the Bible?” I explained, “THAT was a long time ago too. Have you Godless Californian’s ever read any of the Bible?”
“No,” Peter said, sarcastically, going back to his reading, “but I saw the movie.”
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Trenchant: communication that’s strong, clear, and perceptive.

Slang..
eats = fully enjoyable, it slays
Anais Vionet Jun 2023
An occasional gust of wind will lift the translucent white voile curtains and then drop them like a child losing interest. The effect is like flash photography, a burst of sudden sunlight that paints our irises, then quickly fades.

It’s a cool Paris morning. In the low 50s. The windows are open and we forgot to turn on the heat. It’s perfect ‘under the covers’ weather. We’ve succumbed to laziness, refusing to get out of bed. Lazing-in is new enough to us that we’re defining it with a gamut of synonyms.

“Listlessness, torpor,” Peter says, his index finger tracking the slow twirl of the ceiling fan.  
“Stupor, slumberous, supineness, ” I updog.
“Ooh! total submissiveness,” Peter said, drawing the last word out like it’s *****.
“Every man’s dream,” I confirm.
“Inertia,” he says, triumphant in finding an engineering word.
“Good one,” I compliment. “Lifeless, loafing laggard,” I add.

There’s a knock at the door.
We look at each other guiltily, like we’ve been caught.
“We ordered breakfast last night,” Peter remembers.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, “you get it,” I suggested.
“Why me?” he whined.
“Because you can wear less and because what if it’s an ax murderer?”
“These people work for your grandmother, she employs ax murderers?”
“It could be a revolution - this is France - it happens.”

There’s another knock.
“Get it!,” I bleated, like a helpless goat.
“Am I expendable?” he asked, as a man might plead to a lynch mob.
“Women and children first,” I remind him.

There’s a third knock.
“Ok,” he says resignedly, as he rises, draws on shorts and heads for the door.
“You’re my hero,” I assure him, before I pull the sheet up over my head in case it IS an ax murderer.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Gamut: “a series of related things.”
Carlo C Gomez Jun 2023
~
Bergamot morning

the astronauts are sleeping

and she dreams like a mannequin

ceiling stars abound

like hummingbirds in celestial flight

about the nectar of

young bodies, young machines

we drew a map together

from burst to bloom

from fever to neckline

from scale to mirror

pretty scar, a thing of awe

when the curious girl

realized she was under glass

raining in time lapse

she traversed me ad rem

with might and main

I didn't have the heart

to wake us from

her brainchild's motif

~
Anais Vionet May 2023
Grandmère = Grandmother

Peter and I are in Paris, we arrived this morning. We’re staying at my Grandmère’s Champs de Mars residence - near the Eiffel Tower.

One of my Grandmère’s oldest and dearest friends is a Catholic Bishop. When I was little, he was ‘Monsignor Jean-Marc’ but now he’s ‘Bishop Jean-Marc.’ He’s been around so much of my life, he’s almost part of the family. I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that he has his own apartment somewhere in each of her houses.

Jean-Marc is old. I think that’s fair to say. He’s white haired and the kind of short that comes on slowly, with age. He’s a disciplined kind of thin and his deep wrinkles are tanned from years of gardening. His teeth, always visible in his salesmen’s smile, are as white as altar candles.

When I first glimpsed Jean-Marc from the hallway, he was sitting on a cream satin settee, in conversation with my Grandmère. I knew something was up because he was wearing his red trimmed cassock and red sash, instead of his usual black suit.

What I couldn’t see from the hall, was that the room was packed with matronly ladies, dressed in matronly dresses of glittering white, glittering beige, glittering yellow and glittering gold. Argh! I was wearing a white Polo tennis dress, Keds mini canvas sneakers and my hair was ponytailed. I wasn’t dressed for a social. I swiveled to give my Grandmère a sharp look, but she took that moment to be interested in the drapes.

As I’d come into the room, Jean-Marc stood and greeted me cordially saying, “AnnAAAas!” raising both hands up over his head as if he were channeling the pope. Ok, I thought to myself, this is happening. I offered my most innocent smile. “Bishop Jean-Marc,” I said, while performing an involuntary curtsy, conjured from somewhere deep in childhood reflex-memory.

I don’t like priests. Slam me, sue me, **** me. When I’m around a priest, I’m reminded that I’m a sinner and I feel guilty about not feeling guilty. It’s the worst kind of guilt for a Catholic, because we don’t earn any credit for it.

Opp! I just thought of Peter, so there’s lust, right on queue - that’s a sin. Unfortunately, Peter’s not here. He and Charles went on a chauffeured driving tour of Paris. Envy - there, another sin, I’m on the road to hell but I can’t seem to stop, one thought just follows the next. Where’s a priest when I need one? (to confess) Just kidding, there’s one right in front of me.

The bishop began asking me a string of unimaginative questions, like an old friend catching up. “How’ve you been? How's university? As he grilled me, slowly, like a steak in a smoker, the herd of matrons ambled slowly our way, closing in to listen in. It was a scene straight out of the walking dead. I wanted to escape but my Grandmère held me in place, with the full wattage of her proud smile.

Ordinary boredom is an un-experience and all you need to free yourself is a phone. High society boredom is one of Dante’s circles of hell, because you have to interact with strangers when you could be doing something fun instead. The gathering finally broke up about 7pm and I was free to go. I was starving, my throat hurt from talking (about myself) and I hadn’t heard from Peter. When I checked “find my,” it showed him there, somewhere. So I went in search.

Peter was in his (our) room, on his back near the edge of the bed, one shoe off and one shoe on. He was as still as a corpse but a soft snoring suggested he wasn’t dead. I leaned over him, his black hair was somehow more disheveled than usual and his lips, moist and slightly parted, looked invitingly ready to kiss. I didn’t do it though, that would have been asking for trouble. Instead, I smelled his breath, slowly and deeply. Cognac. Charles had gotten him drunk. How helpful.

Once I tucked Peter in, I went looking for Charles, only to find him shooting billiards with Jean-Marc. He looked none the worse for wear and the gleam in his eyes told me he knew what he was doing - avoiding me with the bishop.

As I prowled the room, trying to decide what to do, while picking up objects and weighing them as objects to be thrown, a server brought in a tray with three bowls of cassoulet,* which smelled incredible, my stomach growled, and I remembered I was starving.

Charles, sensing a shift in the mood, said, “He (Peter) needed to reset his body clock. He’s young, he’ll be as good as new in the morning.” I just laughed. Charles knew I’d come looking for him and he’d ordered me dinner. I can’t stay mad at Charles; he knows me too well.

The cassoulet was to die for.
We’ll start our vacation, for reals, in the morning.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Cordial: “in a politely pleasant and friendly way.”

Champs de Mars = “The field if Mars” It’s the name of the Park (the ‘Central Park’ of Paris) where the Eiffel Tower is (my grandmothers house is across from it).

*cassoulet = a gumbo made of white beans, pork, bacon, duck, goose and toulouse sausage in a tomato stock of garlic, onions, herbs, and goose fat. A dreamy French comfort food I haven’t had since last summer.
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