You know, Cristal is swiftly on her way to earning a magic stick just like the rest of us montres, fey, freaks, and assorted bon-vivants.
Even when she doesn't sing.
Yesterday evening just happened again, idly wondering how I was going to fill an evening and make it interesting for Gavin, when the phone began to ring, Le Lapin Agile was briefly described in softly pulsing imagery, and twenty minutes later I was off to intensive laundry and minimal groceries.
Sixty-five minutes later, vegeterian dinner was simmering on the stove, a Chateau Lussac St-Emillion battling with the lemon-fresh basil tomato sauce for air space and perfumery.
A little bit of creative furniture juggling and the kitchen table was comfortably seating six faces shaking with laughter in the "living room", one brit, one kebekois, two parisians, me, and a bewildered young student from Annecy.
That Cristal had crossed paths with that afternoon.
Shaking his head as he took the honour of opening the second bottle of wine, he reached for Seb's Italian baguettes (gosh they were good) and muttered "yesterday I would never have believed this", when he was boarding the train for his week-long database training in Paris.
Salad and cake and coffee and laughter and digestifs later, we were taking our turns with the "petit coin" (the loo), Cristal having discovered that a disconcerting part of my accent isn't actually anglophone - it's from Lyon, just like our still bewildered C�dric.
Hiking up the climb to Montmartres and La rue des Saules (still the most beautiful street in Paris IMHO, with it's hazy iron lanterns and white stone palatial buildings peering out from behind the montmartres Vineyards), we turned the corner, breathless, and that little pink building jumped out at us almost as magically as when David and I had stumbled across it that first time.
Almost, because he wasn't there this time.
Wandering in, the six of us made a splash with our accents and already-charged smiles, shook hands with the singers and promptly joined in a rousing chorus of Edith Piaf's "Milord" - Cristal and my favourite song, even before our sweaty bums had settled themselves onto the deep wooden stools.
Gods, that place is overwhelming. The look of wonder on Gavin's face was the greatest gift, an appreciation for this city that goes so far beyond the Eiffel tower smuding the skyline from the Basilica.
We left so many hours later, still singing, our faces glowing with it.
And now, my pain brioch� is being dunked in coffee, because it has only been five hours since my head hit the pillow, and that was a particularly long sleep for this week.
I'm off to buy ski pants for the trip tomorrow, e-mail back people at work, have at the teetering stack of dishes in my counter, and have lunch then check out the Dali museum on Montmartres with Gavin.
Tonight is dinner with thirty or forty of the rollerbladers, at their favourite caf�.
Living in a city where most of the people I cross during my daylight hours spend their time at la D�fense, scowl before they listen, and always look down, never up, to avoid the dogshit in the streets, sometimes an evening like last night reminds us of the reasons that Paris was once a bohemian paradise and still the source of so much mystery.
It isn't the Champs Elys�es, it's the hidden street behind Montparnasse, and the irregular cobbles of Montmartres.
And I was only missing one thing.
Him, and his arms about my shoulders as the same wild-haired man broke into a love song that had tears stinging my eyes and blurring the dark walls.