Fabio

Last night was our dear friend Fabio. His name is really Fabio. That is the first thing (he is half-Italian, so it is marginally justified). The next thing is that Fabio is such fun. He rides around Paris on a tiny vintage red Vespa with a crazed look. He is fun because he never takes himself too seriously. We were riding along next to him and my camera was in peril because my laughter was carrying me away. Fabio laughs like a girl, and plays frisbee like an Italian/Frenchman (which is to say, not at all). Good thing Fabio is sort-of part of the family. We'll keep him.


That is the Canal St. Martin floating along in the background.

A funny story about Fabio and his girlish laugh:

While we still lived in New York, Fabio came to visit and Xavier and Fabio went for a little trip to New Jersey (heaven knows why). Picture this: two Frenchies cruising along in a rented red convertible Mustang. They thought they were really something. They were near Newark. Night overtook them and they needed to find a spot to stay. A flashing motel sign appeared off to the right of the highway and they pulled over. They agreed to the tariff, which was assuredly increased in their honor (or their car's) and walked into a nightmare. The room was filthy. Cockroaches. Banging walls around them. Soggy, can't-see-your-toes carpet. Mildew covered shower curtain, which was able to stand stiff on its own. American charm. They were especially impressed with the proprietor. He was missing quite a few teeth and wore cut-off jeans and walked around barefoot. Fabio's reaction was laughter. It was 2am, they were standing in the room, Fabio looked around and let out a stream of his high-pitched, girly laughter. They bunkered down for the night and Fabio giggled his way to sleep. Early the next morning, Xavier and Fabio were awoken by an impersonation of Fabio's laugh penetrating the thin motel walls. Fabio had effectively enamored their neighbor the night before.