The Baguette and the Braids

The children here scream a lot. I mean they really belly-ache it sometimes, even the older ones. The younger ones will start piping up before 7 am. I talked to my friend Sophie LeClerc and she said that in her opinion, France has kept the same authoritative methods she saw as a child; where children are given no place for opinion and are shoved behind the parent's needs, so they cry a lot.
 I wrote this in a cafe on the second island. 

The Orangerie Restaurant.

The outer crust, resistant as a lobster's shell at first tooth, with a little gnawing soon shattered into crispy fragments of toasted flavor. But the inside was nearly missing - with a few stretched fragments spun like an interior frosting. They were the only reminder of the eager, live dough that was once there. 

  A preschooler wanders by, her dad's arm merely a tagline to keep her on course. Her curved finger points out the marvelous windows. She wears a golf cap whose style would have done her dad well (but in a different color, of course!) askew over her fuzzy brown braids. But it doesn't hide her treasured cheek-splotch, some face painting or sticker tattoo from yesterday. There's no telling if it's a butterfly or a doggie. Its purpose, however, is established. If momma removes it too early there may be tears. 

  I beg of you: let her expression of herself come out until she is satisfied. How else can she ever learn to hear her heart?