Gas is expensive. At least, that is what the old witch says. Here I am with mittens and scarves, desperately seeking warmth under the bed covers to no avail.

Hemingway is all the rage here, but he does little to stimulate me. Beautiful prose is every bit at important as the message.

Crème fraîche is so terribly high in calories that I’m wondering if I am better off soaking my berries in Greek yogurt and pretending.

Why twiddle your thumbs when you can stick your nose in a book instead. If you’re looking for something to do.

Spring showers bring fresh flowers, isn’t that how it goes?

Classes at the Sorbonne today… how tiring.

The early blooms of spring summons me, once again.

Paris at night. It is dazzling; my heart swells from the tenderness of youth. We slipped into club after club in ritual, the juices of saxophone pouring out, our feet burning until dawn.

To be disappointed, or to disappoint… I never can decide which feels worse.

— ❀ —

What does a girl need to do around here to get a decent cup of tea, hmph?

What a weekend it’s been. Certainly one for the books. And now, so many correspondences to get to!

A much needed rest. I must say, no work and all play can get dull after a while. There’s only so much antiquing a girl can do in Ithaca.

Funny, I wear it short.

The weekend is over already?

Whether it is owed to the browning and the eventual death of the leaves , I do not know, but I feel a revival coming on.