lunchtime wine.

Bonne and Chastity became my regular lunch buddies, and one day we continued past the throngs outside our usual cafeteria, and down the hill into a neighborhood we had not discovered yet. The streets were lined with plush foliage and free of litter, and in each doorway was a boulangerie, patisserie, or cafe. A winding river ran in its midst. 

We leaned against the rail of a footbridge to take in the beauty of the moment; the sparkling water of the canal, the red and orange leaves drifting gracefully downward to land on the placid surface, the hush that was so rare at noontime in France. Across the way, a mill spun water outwards in a steady stream, and as we approached it we found a small cafe overlooking the river. Within a second of entering, a kindly face had appeared and was ushering us to a cozy corner table.

"Et voila, Mesdemoiselles. Qu'est ce que vous allez prendre aujourd'hui?" We looked up to consult a chalkboard where two choices were scrawled. Facile enough; Bonne and Chastity chose fish while I went with chicken, and we all selected the soupe a l'oignon. Finally, despite the fact that we had a test in language directly preceding this, we opted for a bottle of wine. What the hell; it was Friday and we deserved a little celebration.

We started off with idle chit-chat as we waited for the food to be prepared in the back room, where we could hear the chefs, presumably all one family, calling back and forth to one another. We warmed up with gossip as we slurped at the delicious soup, for which we thanked the woman as she replaced it with our plats principals, and were met with a pleased and flattered, "Je vous en prie". 

The chicken was delicious, the wine was even more so, and we had to order another bottle to go with our life stories. Dramatic pauses were taken in order for one to pour the others' wine, to savor a long sip, to ponder the depths of the glass as if it held the answer of some age old and ever-perplexing question. Bonne was in the midst of spilling all the gory details about Neal, her first love, when someone happened to noticed the time.

"Um, guys?" Chastity interrupted. "If that clock on the wall is right, we have, like, ten minutes to get back to class." I felt like I had just been startled out of a peaceful dream. Class? But we had been having so much fun! Bonne, always the efficient one, went straight to business.

"We'll have to finish the wine while she gets the check, skip the coffee, and sprint." Our eyes met over the wine as the same thought crossed all of our minds: we still had a good portion to go. But we were only in France once, and we needed to get the most out of our limited money, so before you could say "Allons-y" another round had been poured and guzzled and we were ready to hit the road. Thanking the lovely madame for all of her kindness, we tripped out the door into the fresh autumn air and, after a brief stretch and a prayer, took off. 

We raced along the riverbanks and darted between traffic across the street. People stared out of the windows of the small boulangeries and corner cafes as we charged past, our hair flying and jackets flailing. Startled passerby uttered a bemused, "Oh la la!", mothers yanked their children out of harm's way.

Our sprint had slowed to a canter as we reached the end of the block, and while huffing and puffing our way up the hill, we got a terrifically well timed, "Hello! I love you!" from a group of passing French teenagers. 

We were limping and wheezing by the time we reached the top, and the slight flush from the wine had evolved into a full out beet red. I for one was sweating profusely, and stopped to take off my coat while Bonne removed her heels. This was the final stretch: it was time to go all out. 

We came barreling down the basement stairs to arrive, panting, dripping sweat, and still quite tipsy, at Madame Emmanuelli's language class exactly fifteen minutes after it had started. All eyes were upon us, with the exception of Preston, who continued to work intently on his test. Madame Emmanuelli advanced upon us, hands on hips.

"Oh, my little cabbages, " she declared, looking us up and down. "What am I going to do with you three?" 

We stiffened. Would she call down Mr. Austin? Were we going to get expelled? Would the rest of our school careers be jeopardized all for the sake of a little lunchtime fun? She turned, shaking her head, and picked up the last three tests of the pile. When she looked up she was smiling.

"Oh, les petites chou-chous," she said again as she feigned a playful whack with the stack of papers. "Oh, la la la la!”