“Gipsy, give me your tears!”
On my way back to the pharmacy just now, a gipsy talked to me. Dude, that was so weird!
I *must* blag about it ;)
She said I would travel abroad, but not just now. Well, I didn’t say, but the taxi picks me up in 10 minutes to go to the airport; I’m going to Boston for a few days, for work.
She told me to remember the number “19” because it is going to be important in the upcoming months.
She asked me if the initials M J F meant anything to me and I said no. But she said I should keep them in mind because they will matter soon.
Then she gave me a white plastic “stone” from the Saintes-Marie de la Mer, where she comes from). It’s ugly. She said people must treat gipsies right (and she meant “generously”), so I gave her 5 euros. She must have thought she was in potentially good compagny, so she went on and read my palm.
She said I was lucky and other stuff and that I had an excellent memory (wrong!)
She asked me if I had undergone surgery in my life and I said no, and she said I never would. Amen.
That’s when she said it usually costs EUR 20 to 30 for palm reading. She was _that_ close to add “otherwise the predictions don’t work”, I’m sure.
I didn’t give her any more money but I’ll slip the plastic thingie in my bag, just in case ;)
Update: I just thought I’d mention that the flight attendant, seeing I was pregnent, moved me from a seat at row 11 (exit) to row… 19!
No update on MJF.