Close to our apartment in Paris is the small charming Place Flora Tristan. I was walking past it when a bright red Deudeuche (Citroën 2 CV) drove up and illegally parked. I was never so pleased about an illegally parked car because I knew that the red-door bakery facade was behind me; the driver left the engine running, which meant she wasn’t going to be long if I could quickly get to the opposite side of the Deudeuche, a sweet photo was waiting for me.
If ever I wanted to be wearing a black and white polka-dotted dress, green pumps, a straw hat, and carrying a massive bouquet of daisies, this would have been the day. Or maybe wearing jeans, a long-sleeved navy striped tee-shirt with a beret, I would have jumped into the photo.
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