Ode to Opposable Thumbs

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Well, hello from Paris!

I've been doing some thinking here about what it means to be on the top of the food chain, and how it is we all came to achieve such heights. To be certain, opposable thumbs are at least partly responsible for the glory. Without them, how could we carve a blade, load a gun, or squirt ketchup from those little packets? The reason I write all this, folks, is because I think I've broken one of mine. See, doors open the wrong (read: unamerican) way here, and my little digit got stuck in the crack. Ow. Anway, the injury is making it quite difficult to, say, open bottles of wine by the Seine, wrest esargots from their shells, or surreptitiously feel up the tomatoes at the produce stands.

You have to do that with a bit of finesse, you see, cause the produce men do not like you touchin' their veggies one little bit. How they expect me to buy a tomato without smelling it first, I will never know.

Paris is enchanting. Of course it is. There is art everywhere, even where it's not meant to be. Each cobblestone path lures, and many have now been responsible for my willy nilly wandering. I've spent both of the two days I've had here just walking - about 12 hours each day, generally tracing the same path. I'm staying up in Montmartre, and each morning, I've set out for the Left Bank. It seems a short walk there - Paris remains slumbering until about noon, when folks spring to life at cafes, on the stuffed sidewalks, and all over every major cultural institution.

Really, it's not so short a walk and, after all the alley rambling, picture taking, and veggie squeezing, I'd arrive to the Left Bank about three hours later. Any of you who know me and have been there can probably guess its allure: the boulangeries! Epiceries! Patisseries! Fromageries! Is that a word?

Indeed, the food over there, guys, the food! Each day, I packed my bag with strawberries, a couple logs of cheese (there's this one super pungent, dry goat cheese that I really do not think I can live without), a seeded baguette, a pot of walnut-infused mustard, a fat sausage made of tripe, and a bitty bottle of wine for one and headed to the banks of the Seine. And then for hours each day I sat, snacking, napping, reading, listening to wonky trumpets and watching couples get engaged.

It has - obviously - been a dream, but I am ready to go. The rumors are true; Parisians are a less than effervescent crowd, and this town is expensive. I can not wait to get on that train today and see what the world looks like when you've been given no mental images. Really, guys, do any of you have any idea what Ljubljana looks like? I sure don't, but I'll let you know. I've decided to spend half a day there - I hear they have killer beer gardens.

Ciao,
Jamaica

Oh, ps, I can't figure out how to access my photos on this computer, so you'll have to wait.

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