One dream in Paris

1. Refried beans (Hashirama)

I had been blessed with this particular ability of mine.

Wherever I went, whether it was in my home, in my neighbourhood, in my city, in the world or in the universe, I could create a little world for myself that was but a bubble around me.

I could shut out the rest of the world outside and let the bubble consist of only what I needed to focus on in that particular moment.

The size of that bubble varied depending on my mood. When I stood in my tiny bathroom, brushing my teeth or my hair or taking a shower, it would often encompass only my body, enabling me to lock myself into my thoughts, fishing them from the pond of my soul, finishing them up. When I was out on a walk in Paris, where I lived, I could expand that bubble to take in the cobblestone streets, the trees lining the alleys, the Eiffel Tower, the museums and shops and cafes around me. I would let that world contain all of the scents as well; of melting autumn leaves, of hints of snow, fresh spring grass, tarmac heated by the summer sun, all depending on the season. And also the scents that were an all-year given in Paris; coffee, cigarette smoke, exhaust from the sticky, oily traffic.

But now...

The bubble that was my world wasn't small enough to contain only me, nor was it big enough for the Eiffel Tower. When I was at work, my world was the little posh cafe where I worked Monday to Saturday, six am to five pm. That world smelled of coffee beans, of airy, buttery Parisian pastries, of the expensive perfumes and colognes of customers, of my own exhaustion and fatigue but most of all of my indescribable love for my job and for my life.

I contemplated this as I wiped down the counter, the sleeves of my light blue shirt rolled up over my lean but strong underarms, my grey suit pants hanging off my hip bones alongside my apron, my long, chestnut hair in a bun that was slowly but steadily falling out since my hair was so glossy. I was twenty-five, and had graduated culinary school two years ago and now, I was in Paris.

I know what's usually the story behind culinary school kids. They have been cooking with their maids since they were children in their big mansions, become very good at it, then taken over the responsibility for family dinners at the age of nine, invited their friends over for five-course dinners in their teenage years and then, after graduating high school, applied for culinary school in the hope of opening a Michelin star restaurant tied to their name, already having the benefit of rich parents behind them.

With me, it had been nothing like that.

I had been a very normal child and teenage boy (except for the fact that I played horse polo for a couple of years even if my family wasn't rich, please don't ask) and spent my weekends playing video games, having the normal amount of interaction with my mother and father even if I loved them dearly and they loved me. As I went to high school, I could dish up fries that I'd warmed in the oven and serve them with some refried beans and toast. Scrambled eggs was the most complicated dish I knew. But as I was in high school and thus still living with my parents, my small repertoire of meals I could cook for myself didn't matter that much because my parents were in charge of dinner, enabling me to compensate for my otherwise lacking diet so I got all of the bits and pieces of nutrition I needed to build a growing teenage body.

But once me and my fellow classmates started to see the light at the end of the tunnel that was school, that one question that will decide the course of the rest of your life was inevitably wedged into my life as well, like an envelope being wedged into a small mailbox. What do you want to do when you graduate?