The serene meadow at the Jardin des Serres d’Auteuil in which I quasi-napped alongside the daffodil patch. In this eudemonic spot my grass-imprinted hands were kissed by curlicues of vernal breeze, my mind coaxed into rare stillness.
Such idle woolgathering was rudely arrested by an anonymous man who woke me, asked for the name of an adjacent tree, and bluntly segued into asking me to dinner. I quickly rejected. As I bee-lined toward my waiting bicycle, I rued the man for shattering my fragile blanket of peace, my transitory token of relaxation in this Parisian urban overload.
