It’s my last day in France, and I’m sitting at a table in the same restaurant I ate at the first night I came to the country. JB came to tease me about the enormous “American size” cups of coffee I bring with me from home when I come to draw, and has jokingly brought me coffee today in a proper soup bowl. I asked how many espresso shots he had to pull for such a prank, and I think the honest truth being that he had lost count, he goaded instead “you don’t want to know.”
The owner, Kevin, and his wife, Daniella, sat down with me to eat their lunch, three people sandwiched together a table for two; my favorite here with a now nearly permanent metal “Reserved” marker propped up in the center. Coming to join at different times, they each asked what my plans were from here, and to each I gave the same shrug of ambivalence, quoting my mom in an all too true saying, even if it’s by my own self prophesizing, “you want to know how to make God laugh? Tell him your plans.”
They seem to change every day now, with such frequency that I haven’t much to hold onto except the idea that the only plan I can hold onto is the lack thereof. People keep probing, as if the idea of not knowing is so unknown, making it clear, sometimes, that their want to know is stronger than my need to know.
I know what I’d like to do, but couldn’t possibly cut options to any in preference of another, because their prioritization is a constant balancing act. Anxiety is the only thing guiding my index finger every time I confirm a flight, train, bus, or ride share, because the best of me doesn’t think about the future, she thinks about what she’s smelling, what she’s seeing, what she’s tasting, what she’s hearing, what she’s feeling; she thinks about right now, and right now there’s no where else I’d rather be than here, wherever that may be.