what next? (Marilyn from Sunday)

dear folks -

for as long as there has been a paris (i think we're talking a couple
of thousand years here) there have been markets here. city folk are
always more modern and sophisticated than country. the other day when i was on the metro, a farmer took the metro to a market.
this farmer looked like a farmer. he could have come
from an illustration in a mother goose
book or a collection of grimm's fairy tales. he wore plain pants in a
plain color and a smock shirt. his shoes were heavy, simple brown
leather shoes. over his shoulder hung a pair of big bags tied together.
they probably were pillowcases. the knot was at his shoulder, one bag
hung forward and one back. in his arms were three flat wooden boxes.
carefully laid in each box were several inches of lavender
flower stalks.
more lavendar had been packed and crushed into the bags.

for moments the scent of lavender took one far and away from the noisy,
brightly lit subway with its no-holds-barred advertising to a place of
only calm and serenity.

this week there is an international beach volleyball tournament being
played on a specially constructed beach between the venerable
military
school and the eiffel tower. a team consists of a pair of tall, lean,
muscled young athletes. the men are 6'4" and up. the women either side
of 6'. and women have rules which strictly limit the size of the
"uniforms" they can wear.

we picnicked just adjacent to a pair of volleyball courts to enjoy some
of the sport. it is impressive to watch these folks play. we were
not the only ones gathered. off at one side, all on her own, stood a
small, trim nun. she probably was about 4'8" tall. her concessions to
modernity were that her habit was neither floor length nor black. it
came just to the top of her practical shoes and was medium brown. i'd
guess the nun was about my age. she watched with great interest and utter
composure for some time, then she walked on about her business.

lavendar-scented metro cars and nuns avidly watching beach volleyball.
what next?

love,

m