Now we’ve been swimming in the Mediterranean. I didn’t want to, at first (I waded in to just above my knees and the water was so unbelievably cold that I hurried straight back to my lounge chair), but Nick talked me into it, suggesting that it was one of those things that People Should Do when given the opportunity. I swam out and back, and then hobbled over the stones to put the finishing touches on my sunburn. And I’m glad that I did.
The weird thing about living in Paris (one of them, I suppose) is that they’re not kidding when they say that all roads lead here (they do say that). We were hard pressed to find niçois souvenirs that aren’t available back home; the fact that we found any may only mean that we haven’t been as thorough in our explorations of our hometown as we might have been. I settled for soap (handmade soap junkie here; hi!) and blended spices, and both smell amazing and exotic, and that’s enough for me.
In the meantime, we’ve come home, and I’ve taken to running again in small doses. My foot still aches where it hurt after the last long run, but I hold out the hope that that will change eventually. Jolie and Jalouse careen along with me, and passersby stare, and everyone has a blast, so it’s certainly worth small aches. It will have to be, I think; I had begun to hang out in pharmacies, staring at the wide range of weight-loss/toning/firming creams/powders/pills. I see them explained and rated regularly and at length in French Glamour, and they have begun to seem…possible. Clever, even. But the fact that my reflection swings from “perfectly fine” to “hippo” and back again multiple times per day suggests that the issue is not entirely outside of my head, and when my muscles sob, my head is quiet.
So running it is.
Running it was, at least: Jolie woke up listless and shaking this morning, and I spent twenty anguished minutes waiting for our vet’s office to open (their emergency answering service believed that that was the best course of action). Some pathos, wailing, and bloodwork later, we have a “recent bacterial infection” (probably from a tick) and a dog medicated up to her eyebrows. She has the former, I mean, and I have the latter.
“We will give her three shots, and then two prescriptions,” the younger vet (who pretends not to speak English but totally does) announced.
“She will be thrilled,” I drawled, missing a bit on the verb but delivering the adjective credibly enough that the intern burst out laughing. Thank you, Harry Potter. Seriously. And next up is The Count of Monte Cristo, because it turns out that I like learning new words.
I scrapped the day in favor of watching over Jolie; it’s not how I pictured my life, but it feels right. And when the daylight started to go, I made a massive batch of fish, vegetables, and pasta flavored with the green spices from Nice. I’ve been practicing with them: the red mix is savory with a kick, while the green one, counter-intuitively enough, will scorch your throat all the way down to your vocal chords. In small doses, it makes the marinière incredible.
Jolie is doing well now; she had another brief bout of fever, but has been getting more and more like herself ever since. And Jalouse has been helping, in her way. I mean, I’m sure that she has been concerned; she kept coming over to sniff Jolie’s nose. And she has tried to cuddle and comfort her, but the fact is that Jalouse is still a puppy, and a spoiled-little-sister puppy at that. So she’s spent quite a lot of the day trying to see how much of Jolie’s head she can fit into her mouth.
Feel the love.