Paris
Monia, whom we had never met, was our first couching experience. We were also hers. She stood behind the rail in the airport with a faintly written sign that said 'M WHALEN.' It was a happy meeting and our stay continued to be so. As guests we were comfortable with the idea that we were stepping right into the middle of whatever was going on in her life. A this point it happened to be a renovation of her apartment. The workmen had left a substantial hole in the wall where the fireplace used to be. Plastic covered the floor, her furniture was in temporary places, and she had given us slippers to wear. Yet Monia was as happy as a clam. She loved her new place, which was bright, breezy, and had a southern exposure, where the Eiffel Tower could be seen in the distance. Her french was emaculate. I began my practice of the french language right there over wine, cheese and pasta. And Monique who is a consumate guest chatted with Monia as if she had known her for years.