The Villa

Our hero loves living in the city. The constant energy and availability of options mean you can go anywhere and do anything at any moment. But there are times to leave all that behind and head out into the countryside, where life is slower and the air is fresher.

A colleague informed our hero there was a luxurious villa to the east of Paris in which he would be residing for several days. Invitation extended, our hero made plans to join for some much-desired R and R.

Deep in the belly of Gare de Lyon lies a little bar called Croque Mie. This tiny oasis of drank is standing room only. No seating, you must stand at the bar. This situation is eased by the fact that pints of Kronenberg are only 2.80, the cheapest draught beers in the city.

He waits at this designated rendezvous point until the others join. Another round. A couple cans for the road. Together the troupe boards the RER A train towards Marne-la-Valle. Little by little the buildings and urban structures disappear, giving way to rolling green hills and fields of bright yellow flowers.

Their host left the door cracked and upon arrival the troupe finds him lounging in the setting sun, fresh out of a three-hour bath, sipping Bordeaux. The patio opens to a multilevel swimming pool and a pond, complete with ducks waddling about. Five or six bottles of unopened red sit on the table.

Wine is opened and poured around as people explore the compound excitedly. Immediately it is decided that a feast should be prepared and drinks in hand, they head to the local market. Our hero has a menu in mind and upon sharing it, the others are on board.

Our hero slips into his role of executive chef easily, slicing, dicing, cutting and chopping while his friends sit in the dwindling spring evening telling stories. Piles of minced garlic and chilies are separated then added to the meat for marinating. Bell peppers, potatoes and various spices simmer in olive oil, making love to one another in the frying pan. Thick, fresh tomato slices are garnished with crumbled Roquefort, drizzled with balsamic vinegar and taken to the patio.

Pasta and salmon wait in the wings but no one can fathom the subsequent courses. Perhaps later in the evening.

Lethargic but fulfilled physically and spiritually from the meal, the evening winds on in slothly bliss. Eventually our hero ascends the stairs and makes it to his quarters. He cracks the windows, inviting in cool breeze and the passionate, comforting bellows of mating bullfrogs. These sounds lull his spirit and lost in a sea of contentment he drifts off, to places and possibilities unknown.

The next morning our hero wakes in a cloud, swimming in pillows and soft, silken sheets. He enjoys an absurdly long shower in the spacious, gilded bathroom. It’s early and he’s refreshed; a rare combination considering the wheels off, rogue lifestyle he’s grown accustomed to.

In a sense, that’s why our hero loves life in France: the cup overfloweth. Food and drink abound, as does a sense of sharing in a communal atmosphere. It’s a loving and giving environment where friends and companions go the distance for one another. Burdens are bared, weight is pulled and loads are shifted. What can our hero do for you?

Neighbor

Hello! she screams in a perfectly American accent

I stick my head out the window

she’s Sadie from Iowa and she’s a photographer

she wants a cigarette and I toss her one

it hits the window and falls seven floors down

the next one makes it in

then the matches

she tosses me an internet password and it doesn’t work

we are friends anyway

The Road Ends Here

As of late, the Duke-UNC rivalry has been somewhat one-sided. Droopy Dog Williams has been snagging top recruits, many who end up leaving early, winning a championship or two and maintaining his general douchebagginess all the while masquerading as a great coach and good person.

While our hero did derive some sadistic pleasure from watching UNC’s struggles this season, it certainly did not help boost the argument of the greatest rivalry in sports. The fact that the two schools, separated by a mere 9 mile stretch of road, now have each won a championship in the last two years speaks a great deal about both programs and the competitiveness between them.

Blue Devil supporters have long been aware of what makes the Duke program so special; quality players and individuals, dribble penetration and ball movement, in your face defense and full court pressure- the foundations of good team basketball.

Duke no longer plays second fiddle to anyone in the ACC or the country. After capturing their fourth national title, Blue Devil nation breathed a sigh of relief after years of struggle and underachievement in the Dance. Toss it up to a weak year in conference or the emergence of leadership on the court. It could be due to the fact that the Devils had a deeper bench than they’ve had in years and finally have gone back to recruiting big men. Some even said it was destiny.

Heartbreakers dropped to the Wisconsin Badgers and the ugly loss to Georgetown in front of President Obama had supporters wondering how tough the team really was.

Despite these blemishes on the record, fans felt a tangible excitement all season. Our hero spent the majority of the season watching the games with top notch whisky and top notch company at the split level on Anderson Street.

Together we watched Scheyer become a true ball handler with a staggering assist to turn over ratio. Singler pushed through his midseason slump, exploding through the final four and finally becoming comfortable in his new position. Nolan Smith slashed to the basket and solidified his range while Lance Thomas did everything that doesn’t make the highlight reel.

Perhaps the most intriguing story of the year was the emergence of the Zoub, from goofy, stumbling, bringing his rebounds down, cringe when he gets the ball, space occupying efficiency inverse, lame excuse for a 7’1 center to confident inside player with good vision and the ability to finish. Amazing what a beard can do for a man.

The brothers Plumlee provided some thundering dunks, fouls and muscles on the interior.

Our hero pushed through the evenings, staying up for the 3:30am local time tip-offs. Packed in the highlander for the final, he found himself the enemy as varied European accents and English dialects screamed for the Butler Bulldogs, booing the Blue Devils every chance they got.

A well-played game by both sides, the bar, the world and our hero held their breath as Gordon Hayward tossed up a half court prayer that seemed destined to fall. Alas, it was not to be and the Devils emerged from the flames unscathed. Our hero, misty eyed with pride, exited the bar quietly after shaking some hands and let out his victory cry. He hopped on his metal steed, gliding through the empty, centuries old streets, cool breeze on his face, reminded how good it is to be young, alive and winning championships.

Tiger Skin

I see your vintage stores

Strolling the narrow streets you used to love

Funky bags and sexy shoes

Glitter, lace and leather

 

Soulful sounds from the past

Drift over rooftops

A reminder of when blue smoke swirled overhead

And we lay talking, or not

 

Silence speaks all

Don’t to say too much; that would spoil the magic and mystery

A painful quiet, a mute wanting to scream

Telling the world

 

About when the breeze drifted gently

Through the curtains and street noise

Echoed softly, keeping company

One story in a city of many, but none of the others mattering at all