Unfortunately, I have other numbers in my head. Like 500. As in mg. And a new word, "paracétamo." Life isn't always romantic in Paris.
Not sure if this what son the elder had in mind when he wanted us to behave more "naturally." I know it isn't what son the younger wanted--he is the one who first caught the bug. And was pretty misérable about having done so in Paris. (I'm pretty sure he got it from the older dude one row ahead of them on the plane, who was snorfling and coughing and honking...with honking being the only thing he bothered to capture.)
So, I spent a day reading, among other things, about LSD as psychiatric treatment in 1950's Hollywood. Which of course resulted with the necessary reference to "Go Ask Alice" getting all tangled up in my head with my translation of dosages in French: une pill renre vous what? Then, relying on said son to figure out dosage for his weight...made me have odd thoughts like "why can't I be sick in Barcelona?"
Je suis désolé. Oops, no, wait, can't use that; that is what son the younger thought to say when for some reason the card reader at the Monoprix wouldn't comprehend our credit card. What, karmic payback? It doesn't speak my bank's language? Ha! Universal comedy in a magnetic strip!! Anyway, son the younger and I emptied our pockets, and managed to find the full amount in cash. Lots of smiles and such exchanged, but when I heard him say "désolé" to the clerk, I knew it was just...comical.
Anyway, lest I leave the impression that I have been completely bumbling my way through this lovely city, I share with you once again that magic number. 119. Which I will speak fully once I have safely returned.
Must to respect la voudou, you know. Who do? I do. Even in Paris.
Maybe doing so will help with the cold.
Or perhaps the older dude from 36B is feeling a prickle of désolé, whether he knows why or not.