A strange and intrinsic longing

I'm surprised at how quickly nostalgia sets in.

My trip to Paris is well under two months old, and you can already find me mooning pathetically over Google Maps's street view of the unromantic location of the hotel in which I stayed. This, even though the second week of my trip served nothing if not to confirm that it was a week too long.

I met two people in my travels who were the sufficient combination of interesting and approachable that I could suggest keeping in touch. Both readily shared their contact information, but neither have responded to my attempts at contact. The cynic in me is quick to nod and say: "I knew it," and remind me that they're in the hospitality industry, one that people don't necessarily choose there so much as they capitulate to it until other arrangements can be made. The cynic goes on to speculate (he's still long-winded despite my efforts to deprive him of oxygen) that even the friendliest waiters and hotel clerks must gnash their teeth at the thought of extra-curricular contact with their guests.

That perspective doesn't save me from the sad disappointment of unanswered e-mails. I also admit to the internal (if not eternal) optimist, who fancifully and unrealistically hoped to make a distant contact or two, fostering a human connection that would span geographic and cultural divides. The optimist takes these setbacks with as much dignity as can be expected, and struggles to endure, even despite the extra coaxing and oxygen that's been diverted to him from his pessimist sibling.

Still, it's not all gloom: I hope to make an appointment with a local friend and fellow Paris-lover to go over the details of my trip and wistfully mull the charms of the city we both love. Also, I recently took inventory of the remaining souvenirs and scraps of paper from my trip, sharing them with my son. While he is immune to the effects of nostalgia, he did find a surprising degree of joy in the sugar candies I saved for him. Nothing fancy, just the shiny-wrapped bits you get in the tray with your bill at a restaurant.

It's funny where you can find life's little rewards.

My brother's the shit

My brother is the only guy I know who can choke on a taco and turn it into a regional event. Way to go, Bickle.

After a brief but harrowing incident that led him to the brink of death, he is rebounding nicely under a physician's care. He's been brave and relatively good natured (depending on whom you ask) through most of his troubles over the last few years, and I'm proud of the gutsy little troll. I say that with the utmost of familial warmth and respect.

I have not lied a bit in this brief and cryptic account, but I admit that I have wantonly misrepresented a few details in the hopes that my bro will hurry home and counter-blog to defend his good name. I'm not good at manipulation, but I'm learning, and that's what counts.