Carousing in my quartier (notice the clever Carroll-ian m�lange of quarter and cartier), could possibly be measured in the total amount of weight that a monstre is transporting at any one time.
We start at mid-load, a brimming yellow IKEA bag filled with mostly-black laundry and the odd brightly-coloured towel or blouse slung over my right shoulder so much like a hockey bag in weight, smell, and the way I walk under it.
Once the load is dumped into the laundromat, the streets checked for my favourite recipe lady, I am several kilograms lighter (judging by the ten kilo sign on the washing machine I just filled), the yellow bag tucked into my backpack, and then I am often off further up la rue Joseph Dijon for market and groceries.
Some days like yesterday, I am off the other way down rue J. Dijon back past the bars and cat-calling "hey blondire" patrons, and then south towards the bank where my favourite conseill�re and her dry humour are there to regale me. Yesterday we made the official demand to have my account transferred over from my branch in the 7i�me. I hadn't realized this would mean I'd have to go through the cancellation of my card alll over again and stuff. And they don't know when, either. Just that in eight to ten days I'll be cardless and living off cash for an indeterminate amount of time.
*sigh*
Leaving the bank, the load is slightly filld out but no heavier - official papers stuffed into the front pocket of my backpack � la monstre-style of organized filing.
Off to the post office, still further south, along the cobbles of la rue Mont-Cenis and la rue Duc. Standing in line while that creepy blonde guy stares at me until I can tear into whatever package awaits me.
This time it was the top four books off my amazon wishlist, an utter surprise from someone I have very little opportunity to communicate with.
Ahhh, books.
Choosing a different circuit we're back north on la rue Duhesme, past the even fresher market stands and their slowly-burdgeoning arrays of exotic fruit. It's spring and the vegetables are more varied, brighter, the air is scented with them, battling for nostril space with the fish stand and its surprising array of shapes you usually only see in jars on the biology floor of universities.
Laden with fruit (strawberries, gooseberries, mango, banana, clementines...), vegetables (spinach, leeks, deep red tomatoes, purple lettuce, shiny carrots with the tops still on...), some new interesting scented cheese, fresh honey and butter, and maybe a chunk of meat if guests are in the planning, we're at half-weight again and there's still the grocery store for re-stocking of pastas, rice, coffee, tuna cans...
Hiking back to the laundromat with bags dangling from my arms, I've got ten minutes in the dryer to re-pack the heavy stuff into my backpack and start folding underwear and sorting socks.
At this point someone utterly strange begins a conversation about how jeans should be turned inside out in the dryer.
Then I'm off back towards where Joseph Dijon turns into my street, curls matted with sweat from the full load on my back, shoulder, and the fruit that didn't fit into my bag in my left hand...
...oh, this hurts ever so much.
All this whimsical thinking about this or that street, how my neighbours offer to help me carry my load up the stairs, how I'd love to take the digital camera that I borrowed last night for tonight's dinner on the tour of the cartier with me, how huge a compliment Mystie paid me and how somehow I don't feel the need to as much anymore...
So heartening to look at that camera and remember the compliment, feel my heart swell beneath it.
Words are so powerful, cheesy as that sounds.
But it hurts anyway, David in the chat window... All these little thoughts in my head, bright little thoughts filled with colour and fresh air, but little thoughts no less
and he is so
far away.
And it hurts.