Leaving Argelès

"Skiing?" Jean-Pierre asked as I walked by dragging my teddy bear suitcase. He was putting out his baskets of fresh vegetables in front of his green grocery store at the end of my street. We've danced in the rain, shared stories for years and he's laughed at me when I return for the third time within an hour for something I've forgotten. The joys of having everything in walking distance..

"Que Genève," I said.

"Domage," he said. Too bad.

It was 6:30 in the morning and because of the very fine mist, less off the marché stand operators were setting up. However, the man with the roasted chickens already had been up long enough to create wonderful smells as the birds turned on their spits.

Laurent was unlocking the doors of La Noisette. No time for a tea.

Fresh bread smells were coming from the boulangerie.

My suitcase's wheels made noise against the brick sidewalks, as I headed to the train station.

Let it be unlocked, I muttered. YES! It was lit up and I could compose my ticket in warmth and dryness.

Leaving Argelès. Always sad.

Arriving in Genève. Always happy.