After our initial visit at Chartres, we broke for a much-needed lunch and warm-up. (It was really cold outside, and inside the cathedral we still needed gloves and hats.) So Mom and I went to a pizzeria/salon du the. I had a delightful fizzy lemony beverage by the onomatopoeiay name of Pshitt.
This made us giggle. Oh, but then. While walking around the old town of Chartres before getting the train home, we bought me this little vanilla Yule log.
On the train ride home, we were discussing what to do the rest of the evening. I was talking about something and dinner: "...and then for you we'll have a nice crepe [rhymes with PEP not PAPE]; a sit-down crepe. Oh, that sounds like something else..."
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At which Mom and I burst into giggles like the ten-year-old American schoolgirls that lurk inside us all.
That night, writing in our journals back at the hotel, Mom asked me how to spell the name of the Pshitt. And then she wrote down about the log, and the crepecrap, and we had a fit of laughter for a solid five minutes.
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This one, though, is from a bus stop thing. You can see it better than the one I took in the metro (which is wider too).
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I brought Mom back later that night. She really liked the coat.
In fact, she liked it so much, she bought one for herself.
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I have several strange photo habits. One is taking pictures out of moving vehicles: cars, busses, trains, planes. Another is taking pictures of sunrises and sunsets. I am always thrilled to get to combine those hobbies, like you saw with the sunrise pictures from the Barcelona flight.
Another thing I like to take pictures of is giant ice cream. Here's one of my favorites, from the summer in 2000.
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I am nonchalantly drinking the orange drink I bought for dinner at the Pizza Hut on Via Laeitana.
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(There was actually giant ice cream in the shop too, but there were people in the way.)
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1 comment:
My daughter loves the giant ice cream cones. She wants to know why more photographers don't have such great subjects.
She was also fond of the big chicken leg.
Keep up the good work.
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