Tara is home.
An interruption to her projected year-long stay in Brussels (the city, not the sprouts) has brought her back to Minneapolis, if only for a couple of days.
This called for a celebration, of course, a happy hour gathering at Cuzzy’s, a small-ish and dimly-lit bar with a most curious number of dollar bills taped, tacked, and otherwise affixed to its walls and ceilings.
I’ve no idea what that’s about, by the way.
One of the wonderful things about Tara – aside from intellectual horsepower, culinary bandwidth, and curiosity about everything – is her ability to attract a wide variety of people: happy, story-telling, eating and drinking people.
Like Florian. Florian is a story teller, a raconteur, and if you were to walk in, say, towards the end of one of his tales, you’d soon wish you’d been there at the beginning.
“... and that's when I discovered,” he is saying to the crowd as I sit down, “that more often than not you’ll find that wandering into the “clothing optional” part of the beach will cause your dinner plans to fly right out of your head.”
Aw, dammit. I should have known better than to leave the table.
Florian takes a measured sip of his martini. “Really,” he murmurs. “Why is it that so many of the very people you’d not want to see naked are the ones that are always taking their clothes off?”
Tara laughs. “I’ve heard that nudist etiquette requires one to always travel with a towel.”
“Douglas Adams recommends the same,” intones Katrina.
“A towel?” Terry asks.
Tara smiles in that all encompassing way she has. “For the furniture. Who wants someone’s naked rear end on their wicker patio furniture?”
“Wicker furniture!” Florian laughs. “Well there’d be no problem identifying the philistine that fails to abide by the towel rule in that case, would there?”
I smile even now, remembering the evening.
Until you come back, Tara.
1 hour ago