Where did all the good coffee shops go?

All I wanted to do on this unseasonably warm day was go to some cozy cafe and make French flash cards. I might not get around to it, because, after a few hours of considering where to go, I haven't come up with anything. Nothing at all.

Well, one thing. But Curious Liquids doesn't exist anymore. And frankly, since I've thought of Curious, nothing I've come up with as a possible substitute could come close to what I want, which is to sit in one of the little alcoves in the basement on a yellow antique armchair, nursing a caramel mocha steamer for hours and hours.

I used to do this frequently in high school, as either celebration of the last day before some school break or mourning the impending loss of freedom that would come when my folks saw my report card. I could spend countless hours playing board games, reading British teen magazines, and writing prose in the style of Francesca Lia Block, all the while feeling equal parts grownup, in the know, and Dead Poets Society. And I was well looked after there, too. No matter what the situation, I always felt unbelievably safe. Unbelievable because teenage girls never feel/are safe, ever. There's always something eating at them, or someone out to get them. But everything seems okay in the sunny windows of an old building with pink whipped cream on your lips. Everything.

It isn't quite what I'm looking for now, but no cafe in the metro Boston area compares, not even remotely, to what I'm looking for. Isn't Boston one of the top five coffee centers in the United States? Not that there isn't good coffee here. I would even go so far as to say we have good cafes, but few that are set up such that you'd want to stay, and I'm thinking none that want you to stay for very long.

Cafe Vanille, for instance, is a great cafe and bakery. In the summer, it's a lovely place to hang out outside. Inside, though? Sterile and uncomfortable. Grey and a bit clanky. L'Aroma Cafe has a warmer interior, and is a great place for people-watching on the well-to-do end of Newbury, but the espresso? Bad. And the tables, I swear, are built so that you can't balance any books or papers on them.

What happened to the great pastime of lounging in a[n independant] cafe, getting work done, writing the great American novel, or whatever suits your fancy? I'm wondering if I'm imagining a time when this was what one did from time to time in Boston. Was Curious Liquids (may it rest in peace, and maybe be reborn) the only place in Boston that was ever suitable for this? Did that culture die with that perfect Beacon Hill establishment?

Do I have YET ANOTHER reason to move to Paris?

Your love life will improve if you dreamed of an avocado.

I've stepped outside myself in the last week or so, taking risks I wouldn't have taken in all walks of my life, including those risks that are the result of inactivity, like not returning the phone calls of the HR manager who took a shining to me a month or so ago. Risks aren't always smart, and I'm far too often aware of that, but sometimes they're good.

Taking on an extra source of income, and one that supports one of my passions, at that, is a huge risk. It comes with its benefits. I got to go to an avocado dinner the other night, and it was delicious (I even tasted, but did not bite, three kinds of fish - and ate duck and cactus and avocado ice cream! Risks, all, for a picky eater such as myself)!

What's wrong with an avocado dinner? Dreaming about it a week later, when you're trying to show people from work all the different dishes, and each literal dish sticks to your fingers and the checkered tablecloth, so as you try to gesture to each course, there's a clashing of plates and forks, and ceviche and guacamole spill everywhere, and everybody tries to be nice and pretend it didn't happen, but you can't stop talking about your damned avocados. And what does the dream dictionary say?

Your love life will improve if you dreamed of an avocado.

Clearly, this dream dictionary is a fraud. Why I am I dreaming about people from work, anyway? What do they have to do with avocados, in any sense? Why are the plates sticking to my fingers? Why are they being so polite? Blow up, already!

Why am I looking for an explosion?

Back from Paris, and busy again.

I thought I would be less busy when I came home, having been certified to teach English as a foreign language (read: I have my Saturdays back!!). Not so! I'm up to something new! A few somethings, actually.

Remember when I was interviewed by one of my best friends for her MenuPages blog? I'll be writing the odd entry there now - about nine a week, in fact. So check me out there.

I'm looking for any English or French tutoring I can get my grubby paws on. Suggestions? Let me know.

In particular, I need to go back to France without delay. Preferably on a closer to permanent level. Anyone know of a school in France that would help a nice and funny American girl get her EU working papers? Let me know sooner.

The problem with Lent for lapsed Catholics.

I don't know if this is true for real Catholics, but for me, Lent is a second shot at making a New Year's resolution. It's shorter than a year, and for that reason it's less daunting. At the same time, it's long enough to form a habit. Best of all, nobody will sabotage your goals of giving things up, because for all they know, it's for religious reasons.

This year, I thought it would be a good time for me to give up cookies. Not that I want to go the rest of my life without cookies, but I'd like to feel like I could live a day without Famous Amos. It's a weird addiction of mine, one that I don't really like, one that actually gives me the shakes if I try to stop. I've been doing well, except...

IT'S GIRL SCOUT COOKIE TIME.

I mean, hello, forget Famous Amos. I woke up this morning with visions of Egg Beaters and toast dancing in my head, and sitting on my kitchen table were two boxes - Caramel deLites (misleading!) and Thin Mints, my two favorites. I told my roommate about my predicament, the green box already torn in my hands, and she told me her mother bought her some she didn't want. Lemonades. The ones they just came out with that I wanted to try so badly but didn't want to blow four dollars on in case they suck (which I'm sure they won't, because Girl Scout Cookies categorically taste good and have crack as an unlisted ingredient, I'm sure).

Sabotage, I tell you.

I don't feel guilty about it, but damn nevertheless.