I was minding my own business when my husband said, “It’s your birthday and we’re going out to dinner.”
“Oh?” I said. “Okay. Where? Aya? Gotham Cafe?”
“Ma Bourgogne,” he said.
[blink] “But that’s in Paris.”
Which is where we got off the plane three hours later…
My husband, it should be mentioned, is a prince among men, a king.
So we checked into the hotel, and then went out to Ma Bourgogne, and had one of those five-hour dinners, and then strolled around the neighborhood of the Place des Vosges in perfect summer weather (which Peter had somehow also apparently arranged) and then crashed and burned in utter contentment. Up early the next morning, more strolling, a brief early lunch, and then back to Charles de Gaulle, the most disorganized airport on Earth, and home to Dublin.
It may take me a while to recover from this.
Meanwhile, I leave you with Troy in 15 minutes.