The Perfect Friday Tradition

My friend Allison studied abroad in Paris last spring. She kept a wonderful blog, which was the source of inspiration for my summer blog, and therefore, this current blog (I heart the blogosphere!). I anxiously checked Allison's blog every day, living completely and vicariously through her adventures. Reading about her stay in France helped solidify my decision to study abroad.

I remember an entry she wrote about Sundays in Paris. She had a very specific Sunday routine, and it therefore became her favorite and most looked-forward to day of the week.

I now have Allison's Sunday-- its called Friday.

Last Friday, with a day of no class and a weekend of the Cote d'Azur to look forward to, I wanted to take it easy. So, after sleeping in, I went to the local Aix market and bought fresh eggplant, zucchini, carrots, garlic, tomatoes, and onions for a vegetable spaghetti dish I had in mind for dinner. After depositing my ingredients at the apartment, I set off on a walk to take pictures of my normal running routine.

It was the most beautiful day. My walk was idyllic. I brought my iPod, but decided instead to absorb the sounds and smells of my surroundings. The constant chatter of pedestrians strolling the Cours Mirabeau. The smell of the trees in the park. The sound the small stream made as it rose and fell over pebbles in the riverbed. Even the smell of freshly baking baguette wafting from the plentiful boulangeries seemed to find my senses.

When I made it to the park, I sat down upon the greenest patch of grass and began to read my book. Within the first few pages, I looked up and noticed a man only a hundred feet away unpacking his guitar. He began to play, and it was really, really good. I simply closed my eyes and listened to clear, deep voice as the sun hit my face. He played a lot of Guster, and even a re-vamped version of Tiffany's "I think we're alone now". In my mind, I imagined he was playing it for me, as we were the only two atop the hillside.

My private concert lasted about an hour. As he was packing up his things to go, I almost said something along the lines of that was really good, but I'm glad I didn't. He was only playing for himself, I just was lucky enough to have found him.

On the way home, I bought myself a cookie shaped like a heart to make myself feel in the holiday spirit. Valentine's Day is much less commercial in France.

After a nap, Annie and I made the biggest pot of spaghetti ever. It was more delicious because we concocted the recipe ourselves. I talked to friends on Skype and read the beginning of great new book Annie recommended, What is the What by Dave Eggers, before falling asleep early.

It was the perfect Friday. I plan on repeating my routine exactly this Friday in hopes of stumbling upon my personal iPod again (maybe it is his Friday routine as well) and resting up for my weekend adventures (this weekend is Venice!).

Guitar man/my iPod.

I'm not sure if you can tell, but he was sort of situated on a hill, with a "mini valley" spread out below him. Sometimes his voice would echo off the surrounding "hills", making the concert even more enjoyable.

One of the sounds I absorbed: elementary school-aged children playing during their recess break in the park. I noticed something about little kids when they play-- it sounds the same in every language. The high-pitched giggles and constant yelling has the same feeling-- one of being carefree and youthful and jubilant.