And I can feel every muscle in my body relaxing, and saying "Yay!," in a Despicable Me minions good kinda way.
And there is no rational reason for this. I mean, I'm just sitting in Yet Another Outdoor Cafe, sipping a Westmalle Triple, and indulging in Bad Habits. That's the name of the cafe/bar/pub I'm sitting in here in Leiden, BTW, not necessarily a description of my actions. Except for the patio I'm sitting on being larger than I'm used to -- my hangout most of this past week in Paris has been a joint called Le Censier, which was tremendous, but had only limited actual sidewalk space in which to operate a sidewalk cafe -- it's not much different from the cafes I've been hanging in there in Paris. But it somehow feels different, more like home. Go figure. There's even live music here, which there wasn't at Le Censier, except for the occasional passing busker. Tonight's band here at Bad Habits is a trio consisting of a guitarist, a drummer, and a chick singer doing torch ballads. Kinda cool, actually. But yeah, it's really good to be home. Don't get me wrong...I really *love* Paris. I get off on the effervescent everchangingness of it all. But here at home I get off on the silence. It struck me tonight, walking Paris The Dog along familiar canals that had been rendered unfamiliar -- and thus new and exciting -- by my absence. The silence here is just *palpable*. And something in me prefers the silence to the effervescence. It's not a better/best, higher/lower thang, just a matter of preference. Some think that a bubbly, effervescent, real French Champagne is the best beverage going. Others prefer a more subtle drink, say a glass of a nice St. Emilion Premier Cru. I'm a St. Emilion kinda guy myself, in spades. But I'm easy about it. At Bad Habits, they wouldn't know St. Emilion from St. Nicolas. So a glass of Westmalle Triple will do. Served with a side of silence as a chaser.
