In Paris, sunny summer days are nothing like sunny spring days. Both have their own special way of sweeping little boys and girls off their bare toddling feet, and I'm no exception.
In spring, the cool dry air wakes me up after a long sleepy winter. Mama and Papa's mood perks up, days get progressively longer, and people write erroneous songs about April in Paris, which is actually often cold and rainy. But in summer, the hot sun warms the humid air and the wind blows in a whole new mood. People move slowly or hang out on terrace cafés sipping
citron pressés. Paris starts to empty and the Gongo starts to sweat. Yippee, it's summer - and it's been a hot one, the warmest I've seen in my whole life!
It's only early July and the summer of 2009 has already brought so much. My cousins made the southwestern trek from sunny Luxembourg to Maisons Laffitte, where a whole lot of family put up with my escapades. I even dipped my feet in the pool.
Then the Gongo's godfather flew in from Venezuela to play with me (and to see the Gongo to I guess). We all took off to Ata's house and went through the ritual barbecue. We picked the rest of the Groseilles and then moved on to the cherry tree. They said it couldn't be done; but daddy made the best Cherry marmalade this side of the Volga! Of course, there was also the Feu de St. Jean in
Morogues. I wanted to hit the dance floor and show off my Gallic roots but mommy made me go to bed. They burned the biggest bonfire in the whole
Cher (I'm not sure whether that means a whole lot) and danced the night away to Celtic tunes of yore.
But it's not summer without a little sand and
moules frites! So Mama and Papa took us to
Cabourg, the town where Proust once hung out. I wasn't much in the mood for writing. Who has time for writing when you have a whole ocean to pour into a hole in the sand one watering can at a time? It's a good thing daddy was carrying the can!
From Francisco comes to France!
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