I was against driving to the evening. Superstitious, I guess. I even fought about it with C. As he pointed out, we’ve driven to the restaurant many times since then. But I finally decided to drive, as we picked up a friend. We didn’t park on the same street, and, this time, we were in the middle of a block.
This year, the rear passenger-side winder was smashed. What makes it more ironic, is that where we parked, C said, “It might get broken into here,” but we still left it there. Once in the restaurant, the owner Christiane asked if we rode our bikes. C told her we drove because lightening doesn’t strike the same place twice.
Only thing stolen: a bag of blue plastic New York Times newspaper bags, aka poopy bags for Janie Sparkles. I only wish they were full of poo.