Sniffles

Ah, sniffles in Paris. It can't get any more romantic than that.

Chris and I had a lovely dinner at Le Fumoir with Andrew Johnston, poet and editor of The Page. He's every bit the dreamboat I imagined, but you'll have to take my word since he was hesitant to let me snap his pic for my blog. He said he was private and shy, but perhaps he doesn't want his image to mingle on the same page with that of a deranged panty-chewing Lucifer poet. Or perhaps he just wanted to easily deny the incident ever happened if asked ("Reb--who?").

Andrew gave me a copy of his most recent book, Birds of Europe (Victoria University Press) and I gave him the latest issues of The Canary, The Hat and Jen Olin's Blue Collar Holiday (recommended by Jordan Davis). I also gave him a copy of The Displayer, a chapbook of poems by some of the Lucifer folks.

This afternoon Chris and I tooled around the city a bit. He attended a nerd reception in the evening while I read a little and took a nap. The hotel we're staying at is overrun with nerds. Every square inch of lobby space is filled with laptops and ill-fitting t-shirts.