Boiled Turkey in Paris

Happy Birthday, little bro!

Just like in the song, I went all the way to Paris to forget the past. I was 21 and everything that could have gone wrong, did. Then again, I was 21. When my little brother came to visit me, in late November, we walked all over the Marais, had banana splits at the Defense, chatted endlessly all over town. Julian took my mind off things, without even trying. I was staying with a French family who lived way out in the suburbs. On our way back home late that night, he commented on how dangerous the train ride was for someone traveling alone at night. When we got out at the small, deserted station and walked along the dark alleyways, he looked even more horrified. You've been doing this for two months? As I nodded, I remember thinking: "So?"
After we reached the house, we looked for the huge turkey my mother had given Julian to bring over so that we could have our own little Thanksgiving. But to our utter surprise, the turkey we hoped to roast for our delicious feast, was now in a huge pot, boiled beyond recognition. After a shocked silence, during which we wondered how anybody could even own such a big pot, we started laughing at the absurdity of it all. As quiet as humanly possible, so as not to wake up our kind, if clueless hosts, we laughed and laughed. I don't ever remember laughing so much. Not like that, barely breathing and with tears running down my eyes. It felt so good to laugh. And to know that it was still possible.