July 14, 1976.
Do tell.
Bastille Day in Paris. It was the first time I was forced to speak exclusively in French, and I did myself proud, if I say so myself. Torrential rain made parade watching a fool's endeavor, so a feast was purchased at a charcuterie, and a happy afternoon was spent consuming it and much wine in a fancy apartment on the Right Bank (there was also eighty-year-old brandy on offer, and I still regret that at the time I hadn't developed a taste for the stuff so I didn't sample it). When the weather cleared, more wine and food was engulfed outdoors at a jim-dandy restaurant. A very good time was had by all. Twelve hours of good time. I've not experienced its like since.
Which is mildly sad.
