Category Archives: Adventure

Paris is calling. She says she booked your apartment in the 14th for this summer.

{My room with a view}

An artist’s studio should be a small space because small rooms discipline the mind and large ones distract it. –Leonardo Da Vinci

After living in a room that had at one time been a maid’s tiny quarters, I believe the word “studio” will forever conjure the sound of church bells, smells of rotisserie chicken cooking at the Saturday market beneath my window, memories of cooking experiments in tight quarters, and the odd sensation of stepping out of my shower into my kitchenette.

I don’t remember having many complaints about my tiny apartment. I always had everything I needed at my fingertips, the whole world right outside my door, and the freedom to banish any nonessential piece of junk, because there wasn’t any excuse to cram it into nine square meters.

(In case you still can’t envision the size, imagine this: I could “mop” my entire floor by stretching a wet wipe over a broom and sweeping for five minutes, and I could open my refrigerator without rising from bed.)

Often during the nine months I spent in that bright little place I remarked that I felt inordinately productive. I read and wrote a lot, and I learned everything I know about cooking (almost) on those two slightly slanted electric burners.

I really miss it.

Which is why, my friends, I encourage you to look into renting a hole-in-the-wall studio of your own for a bit. Maybe just a month. Perhaps a week or two.

And why not in Paris? Why not this summer?

It sounds like I have a studio in mind, doesn’t it? Why yes, in fact, I do. My friend Sophie has a little apartment – a whopping twice the size of my beloved studio, mind you – in the 14th arrondissement of Paris, not far from the Luxembourg Gardens, that she would like to rent out between July 7 and August 18 this year.

Well lit, recently renovated, and furnished (futon, coffee table, chair, sheets, towels, kitchen utensils), this charming studio is typically Parisian, with views of the City of Light’s rooftops and easy access to the metro as well as trains to Orly and Roissy.

Imagine walking down the pedestrian market-street Rue Daguerre in the 14th arrondissement. Visit the tower at Montparnasse and the museum dedicated to fabulous French photographer Henri-Cartier Bresson. Stop at a café around Place Denfert-Rochereau before a stroll through the Luxembourg Gardens. Just the thought makes me wish I could snap this little place up…

You don’t need much to keep you satisfied in Paris. Twenty square meters sounds about right.

The rent, including all charges, is 400 euros for one week, 700 euros for two weeks, 950 euros for three weeks, or 1150 euros for four weeks.

If you’re interested, let me know and I will put you in touch with Sophie!



Filed under Adventure, Inspiration, Paris

Big horses, cautious toes, and what it means to be à cheval

A cheval. On horseback.

On the edge of the pasture, saddle in one hand and frayed cotton rope attached to horse in the other, I position myself to hoist the former onto the latter’s back. My feet are planted deliberately between the front and back hooves of the giant draft so that, in plunking the saddle down I resemble a yogi stretching from the core, reaching toward the horizon as I leave my lower half firmly planted out of harm’s way.

I’ve been stepped on before, but not by the likes of these horses, who not only might unintentionally do serious damage, but could also be quite long in budging a gigantic hoof if ever one were to break out in hysterics under the pressure of a ton of horseflesh. It’s a double-edged sword with Satine’s breed: more docile and gentle than the lightest and flightiest Thoroughbred, these horses are incredibly massive and powerful. I have one toenail that grows oddly because of a run in (or run-over?) with a Thoroughbred. If the same happened with Satine, I might not have a toe at all.

So, I mind my distance. As I struggle to tighten the girth around a very stout belly, I point my toes inward, transforming from yogi to duck.

“You okay over there?” Mélie shouts from the shoulder of her other horse, Utique. “She giving you a hard time with the girth?”

I smack Satine lightly on the belly. “Suck it in, girl,” I say. Then, to Mélie: “I’ve got it!”

With the same attention to my feet, and hers, I lift the bit to Satine’s mouth. Then, all straps buckled, I lead her to the opening in the barbed wire fence, resisting the urge to announce that such a barrier would never effectively retain a Thoroughbred. In the middle of a one lane country road I swing my leg over Satine’s back and heave a sigh of relief. It’s safer up here than on the ground with all those car tire feet.

A cheval. On horseback. I was born here, and now that I am in the irons again I feel secure. I reach forward and stroke the caramel coat under Satine’s mane as she marches slowly and methodically along the road. Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop. Mélie instructs from the back of Utique.

“We’ll turn left onto the trail up ahead. Satine knows the way.”

And so does Satine’s foal, Baya, who intermittently trots along behind or canters ahead beside the road. This is the Franche-Comté region of France, where people drive their cars with the knowledge that they share the road with animals – mostly cows, but sometimes horses. Mélie is not concerned. When a little beat up Renault rounds a corner, she marches Utique out into the middle of the road and holds her hand up, signaling to be aware of the little one. The car scoots cautiously past a very nonchalant Baya.

Into the woods, what looks like an old logger’s trail opens up before us and I turn in my saddle to tell Mélie how much it reminds me of home.

“It’s just like this behind my house,” I say. “The tunnel of trees, deer trails, and moist, hilly terrain. I could be out here with my dad right now, but it’s you behind me instead!”

We talk about pony club and trail riding and the psychology of little girls and their horses. The reins are loose as I look over my shoulder at Mélie, who nudges Utique to catch up with Satine’s longer stride.

When we emerge from the woods, we’ll find the winding road that leads to Mélie’s village.  Approaching their big farm house – one that in another age contained the cows under the same roof as the owners – we will be greeted by her children’s voices. “Satine, Utique, Baya!” they’ll sing, exiting the house at a run. The horses won’t be fazed by the serenade, nor will they balk when the kids run right up beside them, reaching to stroke their soft muzzles and grasp their cream colored manes.

A cheval. As I sit at my computer, thousands of miles from Satine, Utique, and Baya, I look out my window and see two sleek bay Thoroughbreds in the pasture below.

In France, you can be à cheval when your feet are literally in the stirrups and you are “on horse.” You might also be à cheval sur les principes, which means you are a stickler for principles. But, most fittingly for me, you can be à cheval entre hier et demain, with one foot caught in the stirrup of yesterday and the other in that of tomorrow.

Today that’s where I am. Looking back, looking forward, looking to France.


Filed under Adventure, Cool Characters, Horses

St Valentine’s in October (or how to replace a lost photo)

An hour and 38 minute. That’s how long I have spent looking for one photograph.

Remember when we had boxes of prints and they’d either be roughly organized by year, separated into bundles of 24 or 36 as the roll allowed, or they’d be scattered haphazardly in a big  container, where you might find a baby picture in with the sweet sixteen shots? Before I learned how to organize my digital albums, they resembled the old school “miscellaneous picture” box quite accurately. Everything miss-marked, no dates to distinguish the first years of college from the last. A mess.

This is what I was up against today, and, being the photo lover I am, I’ll estimate I had about 5,000 photos more than anyone else in a similar predicament.

The photo in question was taken on the first Valentine’s Day I spent across the ocean from my beau. Having received a giant box full of chocolate candies and buttery French biscuits delivered to my college post office box, I displayed them all on my dorm room bed and proudly took a picture.

(Now that I am writing this, it seems silly I wasted my time looking through every single random album for an image of chocolates. You don’t need to see it; I’m telling you, there were dozens of chocolate bars. You believe me, right?)

What I suppose I was grasping for was the memory, which I’ll always have whether or not I find that darn photo. Like some of the chocolate bars strewn across my bed, the recollection is bittersweet. I am across the Atlantic from him now as I was then. Envisioning his note — “Let’s not be apart for Valentine’s Day again” — I feel a tinge of frustration, as if somehow I’ve broken a pact.

Maybe it’s just as well I didn’t find the picture. Looking unsuccessfully for it gave me the chance to find dozens of other photos from the beginning, including this one, taken the day after we met:

This was one of the first (silly) pictures we took together, and I don’t even remember why we linked arms. (Was it our first unspoken pact?) Out to dinner with new friends on a weekend trip to Bordeaux, my American girlfriends and I remember that the restaurant was packed and understaffed and we had to finagle our way in. Geoffroy and Louis saved the day by offering to cook their own meals. The chef threw up his hands and tossed them each an apron. Cook their own meals they did!

On that same weekend, we “redecorated” Mickael’s van when he was away:

Then we climbed the Great Dune of Pyla, the tallest sand dune in Europe. Dipping our toes in the Atlantic, we waved toward our homeland…The boys even produced a flag for us to fly in America’s direction as they belted out their best rendition of the Star Spangled Banner.

That was a good trip.

I certainly feel happy now that I’ve shared these photos and memories with you, even though they aren’t really pertinent to Valentine’s Day. Maybe not as a picture of dozens of chocolate bars strewn atop a bed would have been.

But to me, this is better.

Happy Valentine’s Day. Hope you’re with your honeys!

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Filed under Adventure, Gratitude, Laugh it off, Travel

Running is good for the soul, and friendship

Yesterday I couldn’t help but laugh every time a car passed me on my short little three mile run. Armed with multiple layers and ski gloves, I had pulled the drawstrings of my sweatshirt around my chin so tightly that only my eyes and nose managed to peek out from the tight hole. Yes, I would be back in 28 minutes, and yes, this was Kentucky, where it never gets cold enough to warrant such ridiculousness. I’ll blame it on my West Coast roots.

All this to say that while I was running my measly three miles I remembered that one year ago at this time, I was training for a semi-marathon and running ten to twelve miles on a regular basis.

My friend Val, who was studying abroad in France while I was doing my teaching assistantship, and I had decided to train together to combat the effects of all the delicious French food we had become so used to eating. We were both runners, but had never done long distances. When we found out about the Nuits Saint Georges semi-marathon, however, our interest was piqued.

13.1 miles through the gorgeous vineyards of Burgundy seemed appealing, but neither of us could deny the real draw: talk of “wine tastings” along the way. At first we thought it must be an oral legend, a bit of Burgundian mythology that had spread over the years. We imagined a few runners nearing the end of their course and being rejuvenated by a winemaker with a beret and a sparkle in his eye. Years passed and word traveled; runners began knocking on the winemaker’s door for a little kick when their fuel ran low.

These are the kinds of things we hypothesized during long runs anyway. Laughing, and sometimes grunting, Val and I got to know each other over the miles. She was the faster runner, but I brought a strong dose of competition, so most of the time we stayed neck and neck. Once on our third tour of the Parc de la Colombière in Dijon, having just beaten our two previous 400m interval times, I pleaded for mercy, saying we should be careful not to injure ourselves beating the time on our third effort.

“We’re already going faster than planned for today,” I reminded her between gasps on the rest interval. “Let’s try to relax a little.”

Nearing the starting point, Val fingered her watch. I sucked in one last deep breath.

I don’t remember much but pain and the desire for oxygen when the timer was ticking. The big, shady chestnut trees that seemed so pleasantly encompassing on regular runs became a blurred tunnel as we whizzed by. I detested their solidity and I yearned for their stillness.

We beat our time again. Continue reading


Filed under Adventure, Cool Characters, Culture, Dijon

Charles Joguet Chinon Franc de Pied: an adventure

I have to admit, as Monsieur Jacquey closed the iron gate behind me and motioned toward his secluded front door, I looked over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t locking the latch.

“Le Nez de Saint Pierre,” he called himself.  St. Peter’s nose.  He was nice enough, although he blinked a little too curiously at me through his yellow tinted glasses. “I didn’t expect a young lady,” he said. I gripped my cell phone and followed him up a path to his “office.”

Monsieur Jacquey sells wine from his own collection, right out of his home, which is why I was a little wary. But he’s the only one in Dijon who had the wine I was looking for — a 2005 Charles Joguet Chinon Cabernet Franc — so, after supplying Nico with the name, address, and phone number,  I had rung the “nose’s” doorbell and hoped for the best.

His office was a converted patio adjacent to the kitchen. It had its own entrance, marked by an oak barrel. Inside, papers and books covered a giant desk, which was lit only by a computer screen. I took a seat opposite Monsieur Jacquey and he poured me a taste of a 2006 Braucol from Gaillac, a town “not far from Toulouse,” he said. Ever vigilant, I took a calculated sip.

“How does a young woman like you become interested in wine?” he asked, an eyebrow arched over one oval lens.

Was that a trick question?

“I came to France,” I said.

“Thought I heard an accent.”

Yes. Yes you did, I thought. But I said, “Yes, and I still have trouble finding my words.”

He excused himself for seeming nosy (“Forgive me for sounding indiscreet”) and went right ahead with his questions. “Did you come to France for love? Do you live here in Dijon? What are your plans?” etc. I did my best to answer politely, and discreetly, then, glancing at my watch, I searched for the infamous bottle.

“Oh, one moment,” he said, taking the hint. Scrounging around behind a cotton curtain, he emerged with a dark bottle, almost black. I smiled when I recognized the familiar label, adorned with beloved French humorist Francois Rabelais’ portrait. (“Drink constantly,” he said once. “You will never die.”)

Jacquey placed the bottle between us. On the label, the name of the vineyard forfeits the spotlight to a vibrant red diagonal band announcing “Cabernet Franc de Pied.”  My host underlined it with his finger. “This is a special wine,” he said.

“Cabernet Franc is the grape of Chinon. When the phylloxera came in the 1800’s, it wiped out most of the vineyards in France, Chinon included.” He tipped his chin. “The insect came from America, but then so did the cure. American vines were immune to the phylloxera, so after a while, when all other remedies failed, someone thought to plant American roots and to graft French vines onto them, to save French wine. According to purists, something was irreparably lost, even though the rootstock doesn’t interfere with the development of the wine grape.”

Oh, the joys of French-American sibling rivalry.

“Well,” he continued, arching an eyebrow. “Some of the vines were saved. And that’s why they’re called franc de pied. They’re 100% French, and proud of it. Like I said, this wine’s special.”

After paying for the wine and thanking Monsieur Jacquey, I practically skipped away with my new bottle. When would I taste it, and with whom? Would I lay it down for a while, or decant it and taste it now? With what meal would I pair it? These questions brought a smile to my face as I made my way back toward centre ville.

For the answers, tune in to tomorrow’s post!


Filed under Adventure, Cool Characters, Culture, Dijon, Photography, Wine

Life in Images: Christmastime in Paree

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Filed under Adventure, Christmas, Culture, Paris, Photography

5 things a Frenchman brought to my attention (about the U.S.)

Bonjour from Burgundy!  I’m settling back into my old wine-and-cheese ways, gallivanting around the valley — camera in tow — stopping here for a slice of tarte aux pommes, there for une bonne baguette, and everywhere between to retrouver (I love that! “Find again”) friends and family.  It’s not all fun and games, mind you.  My intentions were purely professional as I networked last weekend, telling everyone at Sunday’s Fall Festival that I was in need of a contract and did they know anyone in the publishing world?

{Purely Professional}

But let’s get caught up with something more interesting than jobs, shall we?  How about vacation?!  A certain Frenchman just spent his in the U.S.A., and assuming my creative juices had temporarily dried up, he suggested contributing to EmilyintheGlass.

“You’d guest-blog for me?” I asked, interested.

“I’m not the writer in this couple,” he responded.  Then, noticing my quizzical look (hadn’t he just offered to share his latest observations of the states?), he clarified: “But feel free to interview me.”

Here I am, then, with a list of semi-appropriate (Everything –EVERYTHING– is bigger in America), sometimes slightly offensive (toilet paper is thinner) remarks about my beloved country and countrymen.  I’ve narrowed it down to five of the more –shall we say– interesting reflections.

1. Everything is Bigger (Not just in Texas). We went to Chicago the first weekend Nicolas was in town.  It’s not the first time he’s seen four lanes of traffic in each direction, but his amazement with our wide highways led to a list of things that are monstrously bigger in America than in France.  In addition to highways, cars, buildings, steaks, out-of-season strawberries, and people all made the list.

2. Open-minded, open late, open doors.  America is open!  “What does open-minded mean to you?” I asked Nicolas.  Shrugging slightly, he said that when you suggest an idea, whether it pertains to an invention, innovation, or just a place to go for dinner, Americans have the tendency to say, “that’s a good idea, that could work,” rather than finding reasons why it might fall through.  This is a subtle observation, to say the least — and I can certainly vouch for dozens of open-minded French people — but he’s right.  There is something about America — a vibe, an energy — that says “You Can.”  Maybe that’s why You Can walk in a clothing store at 8pm and find what you need for that same night on the town.  Or, You Can go to Best Buy after dinner to pick up your new laptop.  Or, You Can go to the gym at 11pm if you didn’t have a spare minute to lift those weights earlier in the day.  Many American establishments have this kind of quasi-24-hour-a-day open door policy.  (The customer is always right, remember.)  Speaking of open doors, Nicolas was impressed by the welcoming, make-yourself-at-home style of our American friends.  Americans assume you are a good person until you prove otherwise, which means even if they don’t know you all that well yet, you’re friends. 3. Low quality French wine is expensive, cell phone plans are not.  No wonder Americans don’t know about good French wine!  Even the bad stuff is pricy!  It’s true.  You have to be careful when you’re picking out French wine in the U.S. It’s just not possible to find that delicious 8 euro Burgundy for less than $30.  On the other hand, the handful of reasonably priced French wine is not even worth it, in Nico’s opinion.  I reminded him that the selection might be better in bigger cities, but he was still appalled that an (unnamed) horrible wine might cost upward of $15 anywhere.

If we can’t buy wine, at least we can afford to talk on the phone.  U.S. cell phone plans might as well be free compared to their equivalents in France.  A typical French plan might allow as little as one hour of outgoing calls per month, and unlimited texting is unheard of.  Pay-as-you-go phones are also much more common (which is how I became versed in the art of saying so much in under 160 characters).  All this explains why you rarely see people with artificial appendages growing out of their heads in France.  And why a Frenchman would be so surprised to see people on the phone in the grocery, in the bathroom, in school, in their cars, in the theater, at dinner, and –appallingly often– even in the middle of face-to-face conversations.

4. They say “it’s better when it’s French” and it is — especially when it’s bread! There are places in Louisville where true baguettes exist.  The kind that are crispy on the outside and airy on the inside.  Unfortunately, Nicolas didn’t get to taste any of it.  The best store-bought “French bread” we tried resembled pain au lait. (Pas du tout la meme chose!)

5. America grows on you, in more ways than one.  On the evening of September 10, Nicolas and I kayaked the Chicago River through the city with friendsAt Navy Pier, we witnessed a beautiful fireworks show in tribute to the victims of 9/11.  The experience of paddling through the tall buildings, all of them sparkling in the clear night sky, made the city seem magical and quiet, even on a Saturday night.  “The States are growing on me,” Nicolas said as I caught him gazing up at the Wrigley Building.  Later that weekend, when we left Chicago, he admitted that there would never be enough vacation time to see all he’d like to see in America.

For someone with six weeks of vacation, that says a lot.

Photo Credits: Traffic, You Can, Original Cell, Chicago


5 remarques d’un Français à mon attention (au sujet des US) 

Bonjour bourguignon ! je renoue avec mes habitudes vineuses et fromagères, arpentant la vallée – trimballant mon appareil photo – m’arrêtant ici pour une part de tarte aux pommes, là pour une bonne baguette et partout ailleurs pour retrouver (j’adore ce mot ! traduction littérale « trouver encore ») amis et famille. Notez bien qu’il ne s’agit pas seulement de loisirs. Mes intentions étaient purement professionnelles le week-end dernier lorsque j’ai parcouru la Fête de l’Automne déclarant à tout le monde que j’avais besoin d’un contrat, est-ce que vous connaissez quelqu’un dans le monde de l’édition ?

Mais arrêtons nous sur quelque chose d’un peu plus intéressant que le boulot, vous êtes d’accord ? et si on parlait des vacances ? Un certain Français vient juste de passer les siennes aux Etats-Unis, et conscient que mon inspiration s’était temporairement tarie, il m’a proposé de contribuer à EmilyintheGlass.

 « Tu écrirais un guest-post sur mon blog ? » lui ai-je demandé, intéressée.

« Ce n’est pas moi l’écrivain du couple » m’a-t-il répondu. Puis voyant mon regard perplexe (ne venait-il pas tout juste de me proposer de partager ses observations sur les Etat-Unis), il précisa : « Mais rien ne t’empêche de m’interviewer ».

Voici donc une liste de remarques plus ou moins pertinentes (tout – TOUT – est plus grand aux Etats-Unis), parfois légèrement offensives (le papier toilette est plus fin) à propos de mon pays et de mes compatriotes adorés. Je me suis limitée à 5 des plus intéressantes pourrait-on dire.

1. Tout est Plus Grand (et pas qu’au Texas). Nous sommes allés à Chicago le premier week-end après l’arrivée de Nicolas. Ce n’était pas la première fois qu’il voyait quatre voies de circulation dans les deux sens, mais sa stupéfaction devant nos larges avenues nous amène à une liste de choses incroyablement plus grandes aux Etats-Unis qu’en France. On peut ajouter aux avenues les voitures, les immeubles, les steaks, les fraises en toute saison et les gens. 

2. Ouverts d’esprit, ouverts tard, portes ouvertes. L’Amérique est ouverte ! Que signifie ouvert d’esprit pour toi ? J’ai posé la question à Nicolas. Avec un léger haussement d’ épaules, il m’a dit que cela concerne une invention, une innovation ou simplement le choix d’un endroit où dîner, les Américains vont avoir tendance à dire « c’est une bonne idée, ça pourrait marcher » plutôt que de trouver des raisons pour lesquelles cela pourrait échouer. C’est une observation subtile, pour le moins, et je me porte garante pour des dizaines de Français ouverts d’esprit – mais il a raison. Il y a quelque chose aux Etats-Unis – une ambiance, une énergie – qui dit « C’est Possible ». C’est peut être pour cela que C’est Possible d’aller dans une boutique de vêtements à 20h et d’y trouver ce dont vous avez besoin pour sortir le soir même. Ou que C’est Possible d’aller chez Best Buy (boutique d’électroménager NDLTr) après le dîner chercher votre nouveau portable. Ou c’est possible d’aller à la salle de sport à 23h si vous n’avez pas eu une seule seconde disponible pour soulever ces poids plus tôt dansla journée. Beaucoup d’établissements américains ont cette espèce de politique d’ouverture quasiment 24h/24. (Le client est roi, rappelez-vous). En parlant de portes ouvertes, Nicolas a été impressionné par l’accueil, le style fais comme chez toi de nos amis Américains. Les Américains supposent que vous êtes quelqu’un de bien jusqu’à ce que vous prouviez le contraire, ce qui signifie que même s’ils ne vous connaissent pas encore très bien, vous êtes amis.

3. Le vin Français de mauvaise qualité est cher, les abonnements de téléphone portable ne le sont pas. Ne vous demandez pas pourquoi les Américains n’y connaissent rien en bons vins Français ! Même la piquette est chère ! C’est vrai. Vous devez faire attention lorsque vous achetez du vin français aux US. Il est tout simplement impossible de trouver ce délicieux Bourgogne à 8 euros à moins de 30 dollars. D’un autre côté, les rares vins français que l’on trouve à un prix raisonnable n’en valent pas vraiment la peine d’après Nico. Je lui ai rappelé que la sélection était peut être meilleure dans des villes plus importantes, mais il était quand même consterné qu’un horrible vin (dont je tairai le nom) puisse coûter plus de 15 dollars quel que soit l’endroit. 

Si nous ne pouvons pas acheter de vin, au moins nous pouvons parler au téléphone. Les forfaits de téléphones portables aux US pourraient aussi bien être gratuits en comparaison avec leurs équivalents en France. Un forfait Français de base n’autorisant qu’une heure d’appels extérieurs et des textos illimités, c’est du jamais vu. Les forfaits prépayés sont également bien plus courants (c’est pour cela que je suis devenue experte dans l’art d’en dire autant en moins de 160 caractères). Ceci explique pourquoi on voit rarement des Français avec ces appendices artificiels greffés surla tête. Etpourquoi un Français est si surpris de voir des gens au téléphone à l’épicerie, dans la salle de bain, à l’école, dans leur voiture, au théâtre, à table et –horriblement souvent- même au milieu d’une conversation en tête à tête.

 4. Ils disent « si c’est Français c’est meilleur » et c’est vrai – surtout quand il s’agit de pain ! Il y a des endroits à Louisville où il existe des vraies baguettes. Croustillantes à l’extérieur et légères à l’intérieur. Malheureusement, Nicolas n’a pas pu y goûter. Le meilleur « Pain Français » que nous ayons acheté ressemblait à du pain au lait (Pas du tout la même chose !). 

5. Plus tu connais l’Amérique, plus tu l’aimes, à plus d’un titre. Le 10 septembre au soir, Nicolas et moi avons fait du kayak au milieu de la ville surla Chicago River avec des amis. Au Navy Pier, nous avons assisté à un superbe feu d’artifices en hommage aux victimes du 11 septembre. Cette expérience de pagayer au milieu des grands immeubles, scintillants dans la nuit claire, rendait la ville magique et calme, même pour un samedi soir. « J’aime de plus en plus les Etats-Unis » a déclaré Nicolas lorsque je l’ai surpris à contempler le Wrigley Building. Plus tard dans le week-end, alors que nous quittions Chicago, il a admit qu’il n’aurait jamais assez de vacances pour voir tout ce qu’il aimerait voir aux Etats-Unis.

Pour quelqu’un qui a six semaines de vacances, ce n’est pas rien.


Filed under Adventure, Culture, Just for laughs