We frequented the terraces of cafe/bar/restaurant-type establishments, shoulders brushing against many stranger-type patrons, whenever a bodily adjustment was made, so closely were we casually crammed. Conversations intertwined, comments exchanged, questions made, jokes acted out, while pages and pages of personal matters, punctuated by the occasional laughter, floated over our heads carried by thick clouds of cigarette smoke.
Sipping proudly made and served coffee, I noticed how I was loving every ounce of it. Being stripped of my adoptive country's established standards for personal space didn't feel as irksome as I would have predicted had I taken time to consider the issue. Perhaps, this has something to do with my having spent two thirds of my life in an ex-French colony.
On the other hand, I ached for the good ways of my US of A each time I had to pay for restroom privileges, got lost on complicated romantic national roads, couldn't find free Wi-Fi cafes and meatless menus.
As for perfection, I do not think it exists, except in theory, and even then, one has to be compromising.
Be well, and enjoy what is at hand -it is as beautiful as you make it. Now, if you're an unremittingly stubborn romantic with a bend toward seeking perfection, I wish you all the good things you dream of.
Unremittingly stubborn romantic and proud of it.
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