To cheer me up, my better half took me on two-wheeled tour of our fair city yesterday evening. It was my first ride on a Vespa (different brand, but same idea) and it truly kicked major ass... fortunately not ours. As anyone with an overactive imagination can attest to, we tend to imagine colorful accidents where our remains have to be identified by dental records and then we suffer a sudden panic when wondering if we actually have any dental records, cursing our 26 years of excellent dental health, and the accepting that we are doomed to be thrown into a common grave with the bums whose livers exploded in a moment of wine-induced ecstasy and the poor souls who were mowed down in a mafia knock-off and thrown in before they could be found, all because of a stupid craps game. But after a few minutes of screaming "Attention!" and "Watch the leg!" (fortunately muffled by my massive helmet) I began to appreciate the freedom of darting in and out of cars and feeling incredibly sexy, holding on to my man's body and watching the cityscape fly by. The young people sharing a bottle of wine on the quai of the canal. The green cast-iron bridges where dreamy poet-types smoke cigarettes and take in the scene as a still-life opposed to the amphetamine flash that is pressed against my protective mask.

When I got off the bike, I tore of my helmet off, shaking out my hair, imitating every commercial and rock video I could think of, feeling incredibly beautiful and inspired even more to go to the far corners of Paris, if only for the ride. And if anyone wants to race, we'll take you on greaser-style.