Thursday, November 02, 2017


When people think I have a glamorous life, I remind them, I still have to put out the garbage (unless Rick does it first).

In some ways it is glamorous, once the garbage is put out. In Geneva, we can walk to the lake as we admire the Alps.

We've hopped over to the UK for this or that, Paris for the Air Show.

We had a month in Edinburgh, explored an abbey in the Loire Valley, slept in a bubble in Austria and looked out our hotel window in Liechtenstein to see the royal family castle.

But coming HOME to our flat in Southern France has been the best part of it all. Our apartment is on the ground floor between two streets. All the houses nearby are at least 400 years old, many older.

I love our stone walls, my kitchen, our art work. I love walking out the door to get fresh baked bread

and running into any number of people I know for a chat.

I love having everything I need at my fingertips (well almost).

I can watch the neighborhood cats jockey for position.

I love going to Elisabeth's for the fresh local veggies and fruit and the seeing young the Muslim couple as we chat about what to do with whatever meat I buy.

As much as I loved the discovery of new places and the changes day to day, I love the routine of waking and having tea in bed and reading before I start my day.

Poor Rick has two trips coming up. Technically I could have gone with them, but friends are coming for Thanksgiving (no it is not a French holiday, but we can celebrate just the same.) He can take his shoes off at security, unload his electronics and hope he makes his connections.

As a kid we never went anywhere. I dreamed of packing a suitcase, indeed having a suitcase. Now I dream of putting my suitcase in the closet. Next year I'll be ready to go exploring, but right now, I am so content just being HOME.

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