smile, you're alive.

Weekends are freedom.

After a week of running around like the headless chickens that used to grace our markets in the South of France, there's nothing like waking up on a Saturday, eating breakfast, and then crawling back into bed.

Down the hall the smell of cooked breakfasts fill the air every weekend. As I take my trip to the bathroom, I inhale deeply, let my mind flow back to my childhood, and find comfort in such a familiar smell. It doesn't matter that I'm having cereal, because one of my senses is enjoying something better.

But there's nothing better than Saturday. Than waking up in a city, knowing there are a million things you could do, and choosing which one to take on. This Saturday was fiac! the modern art museum.

It took me about half an hour to find the entrance, as I walked around with an older woman from Venice, who had slicked black hair, fluorescent eyeshadow, white face make-up, bright red lipstick, and retro shades. She rolled her words, and we spoke to each other casually as we made our way around the impossibly large building.

Inside was fantastic. Modern art excites me. The artists are brilliant, expressing themselves in the most absurd and unheard of ways. Sometimes you need to hear the logic behind a piece to realize how clever they really are. Or sometimes it's the sheer simplicity of a piece. I loved a chair, on which was painted "Imagine a naked woman sitting on this." Because you did.

Later on I found myself in the trendy store Colette, where Karolina Kurkova, a well known model, was signing magazines. It's strange how the world of fashion, which once seemed so unreal, has such a presence in my life these days. From volunteering at fashion week, to hearing my boss talk about her big shot friends, this surreal world is pressed right up against my face. And I can't tell if I like it as much.

After rehydrating in the water bar, I walked around until my legs ached, then took myself home.

This afternoon I walked down the street to the Patisserie, to indulge in my Sunday writing excercise. Every Sunday my mom in Vancouver, my friend Karyna in Montreal and I indulge in a certain food and write about it. We then send each other the experiences. Today, was an almond croissant, and I'll share it with you, because it was damn good:

I just made love to an almond croissant. We skipped the small talk. I picked it up from the local Patisserie, and held tight all the way home. Should we do it in the park? No, no, I wanted it in my apartment, lying on a plate, and enjoyed in privacy. I could barely contain myself. As I crossed the street the weight in my hand whispered to my taste buds the pleasure that was to come. It was so much heavier than a plain croissant, it’s body full of rich filling, it’s outside smothered in slivered almonds and icing sugar. We took the stairs, if only to prolong the excitement. Once we were back in the apartment I undressed it from it’s paper packaging. I set it out on a plate, grabbed a knife, and took it to my bed. I opened it up, the soft, buttery, marzipan filling exposed. I cut off pieces and sent them into my mouth. Every bite was better than the last. Every taste exploded in my mouth. I tried to push away other thoughts and focus all my attention on my pastry. Eventually I finished every bit of its long body, the sweetness still lingering on my tongue. It’s gone now. We never said goodbye. But I know we’ll meet again.

And there it was. Beautiful. I balanced it out by taking on a yoga class across the city, where I found my body and mind in harmony again.

The weeks here may be stressful, but the weekends are often blissful, and I remember why I came here in the first place.