Pink.

466. Realizing, that instead of the anticipated peer pressures, all I have received so far has been peer support. Over afternoon brunch, Gaston -- in order to encourage me to stick to the September plan and defy social expectations -- tells about his ordering tomato juice at a pub the day before, then showing up for a friend's birthday dinner at a fancy restaurant in a white, faded T-shirt and cheap flip-flops bought from the Italy vacation. The outfit wasn't intentional, but he felt fine with being the odd one out all the same. "Maybe you should wear the same thing to work," I suggest. "Well, I will not lose my friends, but I might lose my job if I do that..."

467. At a braderie near Cimetière d'Ixelles. No matter what we get out of this. Watching a little girl, in her father's lap, bobbing her head to the live beats, occasionally pausing to push up her big moon glasses or re-tug her long hair behind her ears but otherwise completely lost to the music. Smoke on the water and fire in the sky. A few seats behind, a little boy too is dancing equally enthusiastically, pushing his plastic axe up and down, almost touching the ceiling of the makeshift tent. Smoke on the water... Anna and I sing together, moving our bodies to the classic tunes of Deep Purple under the bright blue sky.

468. Parc du Cinquantenaire. Super short shorts. Hot pink. It is hard to make an unembarrassing (inembarrassing? disembarrassing?) sentence out of those words. In my defense, at the same time somewhere in Bois de la Cambre, another girl is also running laps in her matching hot pink, super short shorts.