Scenes from a Breakfast in Paris

It’s painful to admit this, but Paris (and the ensuing trip to Munich) was difficult for us. Or rather, it was difficult for me, and I made it difficult for Rand. (Which was totally unfair, I know. I intend to elaborate on what the heck was up in a later post. Maybe.)

I was in a funk.

Some days were better than others. And some mornings were particularly good. Like the one we spent in a small cafe not far from our hotel.

The place wasn’t particularly memorable, but they made us crepes and cappuccino, and Rand did his best to make me laugh.

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I told him it wasn’t his responsibility to cheer me up, which he promptly ignored.

When I was a kid, that was often something I absolutely hated: people who, when you were upset or angry, would try to lighten things up. I figured I’d earned my bad mood. I was entitled to it. I’d walk around wearing a mask of pure I-am-pissed-off, and someone would try to ruin it? HELL NO.

After a couple years with Rand, I realized that I’d just have to accept that this was how things were going to go. And, damn it, he can do this really dreamy gaze thing when he wants to, and it’s really hard to be angry or upset when you see it.

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I’d have to be okay with someone trying to make me smile, even when I didn’t want to. I’d have to be okay with someone who liked me, even when I really, really didn’t like myself. Someone who insisted on taking photos of me when I didn’t feel all that much like smiling.

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It occurred to me that if this is the biggest problem I have – in Paris, or indeed anywhere – then perhaps I really do need to rethink my bad mood.

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Oh, and he shared his cappuccino, too.