Because what does anything mean the ivy and the sand

I had three hours to kill in Paris. It was summer. I was going to Père Lachaise. Before Bastille Day and before a party for a friend who’s book had just come out. I wandered silent and a little buzzed. Not speaking because my Rs weren’t perfect so I smiled.

I smiled at everyone. Something I rarely do in America and the French thought I was rattled. They didn’t get it. I loved them for that. I love people who smile only when moved to.