My Garden of Eden

One hot day in July, my dear friend "A." invited us for an apéro (drinks) in the garden of her family's estate in Paris.  

We were on the right bank, and the house where we were going was on the left bank of the Seine, a good 40 minute walk. On a normal day, "A." said she would walk there (and we wonder how the french stay so skinny), but on this particular Finnish-sauna kind of day, with the baby stroller and all the bottles of wine we needed to bring, "A." decided taking the bus would be our best option.  I was experiencing a sort of heat-induced A.D.D.*, so my memory of the conversation is a bit fussy. But I do remember very clearly my brain making the following connection: 

Bus --> Air-conditioning --> Happiness.

Wrong. Buses in France don't have air-conditioning!  Why should they? We are human, we have pores. Sweat. It. Out. French buses in summer are basically Le Creuset cocottes on wheels.

We arrived at the house looking like a bunch of sweaty hobos.  You know how sometimes mothers will use their baby strollers as a homeless person would use his shopping cart to transport all of his belongings? Yep, that is exactly the image. On that stroller we had wine bottles, chips, baguettes, ingredients for Moscow Mule cocktails, salsa, guacamole, clothing to change into, shoes, oh and the baby.  Not my most glamourous moment, I'm afraid.

Now, I don't know if it was the heat or the contrast of feeling like a hobo-mother, but the moment we entered this magnificent home and I saw the garden at back, I think I heard the Ave Maria in falsetto**. It was a fantastical place, a wild untouched pearl in the heart of St. Germain.  I was in Miss Havisham's Garden from Great Expectations, and it was heavenly.  

BLOUSE: Theory

SHORTS: BCBGeneration

SHOES: Havaianas

* A.D.D. is an acronym for Attention Deficit Disorder. I don't really suffer from this.
** I realized later that the Ave Maria opera was only playing in my head.  The actual soundtrack of the evening was mostly French rap.