The French. There's something about the way the like their cheese, their bread, their wine, and their art. I just don't have the vocabulary or the patience, at midnight, to try and describe it all with eloquence and and reverie so I'll leave you with the taste of an this evening, and outing to an artist's exhibition of original art to benefit a local charity:
"Magda, what kind of shoes are you going to wear this evening?" I called to my friend from the bottom of the stairs.
"High hells!" She tell me.
Okay, I think, I will too. Every girl gets a better idea about the kind of evening by the kind of shoes one wears. I run back upstairs and slip on my grey pumps I "borrowed" from a friend before I left the states. I say borrowed because she doesn't actually know I have them, until now.
We load into the car, three adults and one baby a year and a half old. On the 30 minute drive we try and keep her awake by playing music and clapping, tapping on the roof and singing songs. If she naps now she won't go to sleep until far too late—the things I'm learning about being a parent is incredible.
We arrive. We know it's the spot because people are pouring out into the side walk. The place is an open garage next to a restaurant in the train station district. Funky red and black eclectic decor yields an artsy crowd and I feel I can fit in amongst this type. Cigarette smoke makes my nose tingle and perfume spices the evening air. After observing from the street for a while, we push our way through the crowd and see our friends at the back. Making our way around to where they stand we find a corner in the crowded room to try homemade patte, quiche, torte, and for dessert, a French specialty, a cherry cake made with whole cherries. The wine was free and so was the live music with a great brass section. There's nothing that looks better on stage than a good saxophone player.
The best part about the evening was that each artist had several smaller renditions of their larger works for sale for 10euros each. Even though I didn't get my hands on an original, I'm inspired to have an opening for all of my artist friend back home. Look out Prescott, Arizona because you don't know what's comin' your way!
"Magda, what kind of shoes are you going to wear this evening?" I called to my friend from the bottom of the stairs.
"High hells!" She tell me.
Okay, I think, I will too. Every girl gets a better idea about the kind of evening by the kind of shoes one wears. I run back upstairs and slip on my grey pumps I "borrowed" from a friend before I left the states. I say borrowed because she doesn't actually know I have them, until now.
We load into the car, three adults and one baby a year and a half old. On the 30 minute drive we try and keep her awake by playing music and clapping, tapping on the roof and singing songs. If she naps now she won't go to sleep until far too late—the things I'm learning about being a parent is incredible.
We arrive. We know it's the spot because people are pouring out into the side walk. The place is an open garage next to a restaurant in the train station district. Funky red and black eclectic decor yields an artsy crowd and I feel I can fit in amongst this type. Cigarette smoke makes my nose tingle and perfume spices the evening air. After observing from the street for a while, we push our way through the crowd and see our friends at the back. Making our way around to where they stand we find a corner in the crowded room to try homemade patte, quiche, torte, and for dessert, a French specialty, a cherry cake made with whole cherries. The wine was free and so was the live music with a great brass section. There's nothing that looks better on stage than a good saxophone player.
The best part about the evening was that each artist had several smaller renditions of their larger works for sale for 10euros each. Even though I didn't get my hands on an original, I'm inspired to have an opening for all of my artist friend back home. Look out Prescott, Arizona because you don't know what's comin' your way!
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