A tropical storm is washing over us, and it's warm,
so the city feels like a sauna. Seems that the current fad
among women of any age here is whimsical knee-high rubber
boots, and it looks like they've been itching for a good
downpour so they could pull on their cutesy rubbers
and traipse about the city. I like to think of them as saunas
for the feet. No thanks. Glad I finally outgrew those, at about
age nine, thank-you.
In other news, we stopped for lunch at a French bistro
on Madison Avenue ("La Goulue"), where we sat outside
(dry) under an awning. Town Cars kept pulling up
depositing pinched & plucked & coifed & buffed
older women who, by the looks of them, still believed they
were, oh, maybe twenty-five. After a while a small film crew
went inside. (I was enjoying my Salade Nicoise, which, with
eight distinct flavors, I could come up with myriad umami
taste combinations: 8x7x6x5x4x3x2x1 equals A Big Number.)
When I went in to use la toilette, I saw what all the
hubbub was about: there was Bridgette Bardot, rather a shadow
of her former glory, very blond (ya think it's real?!), basking
in the camera's glow while tucking into a lovely repas Francais.
Oh, and she wasn't sporting rubber boots.
This is one damn big thrumming honking city.