Moby Dick

throat parched from tea and speaking, eyes red from cigarette smoke, head mushy with thoughts of water...

The past 2.5 hours I've spent in the upstairs room of Serpent, taking turns reading chapters aloud (each in French, then English) from Moby Dick with some newfound friends. There's a reading circle here once a week, and I've invited myself in. Pendant the earlier part of the day, I went to language school, wrote a terribly composed French paper about the horrific existence of a boy with eyes on the back of his head. Then I returned home, got in bed, and finished the second half of Kite Runner, cried it a bit. I was so emotionally and mentally dazed from the profound journey, that I had to go outdoors - get rid of my zombie state. I brought along my laptop in hopes of getting in some writing, found myself at Serpent after running into a couple of friends at Place Plume, and then proceeded to immerse myself in another watery journey of quite a different kind.

Now it is nearing midnight - and I feel like I should begin my walk home - out of Centre Ville, over the Loire - but the music here is so delicious, the water in my creepy Orangina cup so refreshing (creepy because Orangina, for some reason, finds it clever to market bestiality all over Tours [example 1] [example 2] ...yum...) - I do not want to return chez moi. But return I must. au revoir!