Carlos in Paris

I dreamt of my friend Carlos two nights ago. In the dream, it was springtime in Paris. The sun was up, but there were a few people, without masks, riding their bicycles, along Rue de Rivoli. I was walking with him on the way to his apartment; I suppose, in my dream, I had lived a few blocks away from his home, and we were neighbors. Outside his building, I realized I hadn't eaten yet, so I invited him to lunch. It was something I would do in real life: Carlos always made time, and if he couldn't join me, he'd make the best excuses. I suppose it was 1 or 2 o'clock, just the right time to have le déjeuner. I suggested that we eat salmon with a glass of white wine in my favorite restaurant, Café Le Sélect, in Montparnasse, where my favorite short story writer Mavis Gallant once lived and dined. He would love it, I told him. We would take the Métro to Vavin Station, and walk from there. As we began our journey, he remembered that he had a report to cram for a gastroenterology case management conference. He couldn't make it to lunch, after all. 

My dream was so detailed, and it fascinates me that I could remember the little details.

In real life, I'm the godfather of his daughter. In 2017, we crammed our end-of-rotation report on pancreatic cysts for gastroenterology. He was brilliant.

Happy birthday, Carlos!