Geneva sits in a shroud of heavy rain. Flashes of white lightening and low, rumbling thunder come in sporadic intervals.
I opened my windows to let in the cool air. It's refreshing after three sunny days spent walking through town in a wool suit. (Is the "tropical wool" label just a gimmick, or what? It still feels like wearing a suit of armor.)
Tonight I'm in my pajamas and my wet hair is wrapped up in towel.
The roommate flew out to Amsterdam for the weekend, so I took full liberty of cranking up Madeline Peyroux and Pink Martini and Edith Piaf on the speakers while I pack my overnight duffel. I also ate her chocolates. Oops. I'll replace them with macarons when I return.
In the early morning, I'm catching a train heading south. It'll be a three-hour ride, during which I hope to get some class reading out of the way...and maybe start composing those wedding vows...presumably, la ville des amoureux will offer abundant inspiration to get the right words flowing on paper, right?
I'll even work on it in the dining car, with a cup of coffee and an (empty) ashtray sitting beside my notebook.
(But realistically, I foresee myself blowing off the work and reading Le Cirque des Rêves instead.)
Alors. Okay. Back to packing. Paris calls for a dress and a scarf and some lipstick. And a trench coat, according to the weather report. Even if I am exploring the city on my own, I plan to play my part duly as the faux Parisienne.
Bisous!
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