The apronista strikes again!

The post-card I printed on fabric and stitched on the pocket of the apron is of Villemomble. It takes me back to the Gare de l'Est in Paris, where I would take the train to my aunt's, in Pavillon sous Bois, trained by my mother to always make sure it was the Gargan train and not the other one. Just looking at the postcard and I can smell the smokiness of the air on a damp winter's evening, walking past the house with a Chien méchant sign on it (beware of the dog), stopping at the patisserie for some palmiers, and then on to my aunt's.