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Another slightly overcast day with hints of sun breaking through for only short moments, I decided to return to the café with the soup and tartines.

I wanted the same table with the chessboard painted on it, but my banker was having her lunch there. Again.

Must be her regular spot.

Instead I take the table right next the them. It wobbles. I try moving it, turning it. It wobbles.

I need to finish a book for my French lit class by the end of the week, thankfully it seems to not be a terribly long book. The pages go by quickly (twice as fast as expected since the left pages are all in ancient French). Clichés abound, but it is the first example of written French. Clichés have to come from somewhere.

Last time I visited this place I noticed something called Versinthe, which explained that it was made out of the same plants as absinthe. I order it to drink as I continue reading my book. Putting marks of toxic colors over things that might be of importance.

The Versinthe is served like pastis. A solitary icecube floats in the liquor and a small caraffe of ice-cold water is given to dilute to my own preference. It has a nice complex form. A few tastes seem a bit more pronounced than other absinthes I have had.

Sitting at a café in France drinking absinthe and doing homework. A fairytale becoming reality.
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