Paris, Île-de-France, France
November 22, 2015
I just had my first cognac.
Probably wasn’t fine cognac; I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. It came in one of those little bottles that airlines use and I poured it into a little plastic cup, Not exactly a snifter, but at 30,000 feet somewhere over Greenland on Air France Flight 84 from Paris to San Francisco, it was exceptional. The best cognac I’ve ever had.(I added a twist of mandarin orange).
I’ve had a lot of firsts on this trip to Paris. My first ride in a Paris taxi. My first Irish Coffee. My first genuine conversation in French (with someone other than a teacher) in which I actually communicated (a very kind young lady in Le Petite Bateau with whom I exchanged age and size information on an outfit for my grandson.)
“Firsts” . . . are important. One should look for “firsts” . . .especially at the age of 59. A “first” means you’re trying, that you’ve not given up or grown up, that you’ve taken a page from Jack London, decided “I’d rather be ashes than dust” and followed the advice of Andy Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption,
“I guess it comes down to a simple choice: Get busy living or get busy dying.”
Our time here is short. We should live as the Parisiens do: unashamed, unrestrained, and unafraid.