Ironic that as I was driving towards my coffee this morning, to get this day going … I kept thinking of My Thinker.

It was all the rain, pouring down on the windshield, and the warm November temps that brought me back to the Rodin gardens.

To a similar rain on a summer afternoon. That cascading rain. My Thinker and I alone, a slight chill despite the humidity in the air.

And here it is, Rodin’s birthday.

Rodin, you mastermind, you. I hope that had I been around in the late 1800s à Paris, you would have sculpted me. Without hitting on me. Since, if we’re keeping it real, you kinda got around … a lot … kinda.

But. I shall not judge your wanton ways. Or your super creepy beard. These are precisely the sorts of things that get overlooked when you’re blessed being the second coming of the sculpture gods.

I think to celebrate — fully celebrate you — a trip needs to be in order. You know, champagne in the gardens. A little toast. To your brilliance.

Yes, a trip. That’s exactly what this calls for.

Paris, dreaming, People. Always.