In a Paris morning, one last sip, one final taste.
Ready? Let’s go.
Except I am not ready.
I fight back the overwhelming desire to, well, cry. During the entire 10 hour (delays, bad winds) flight.
Back home I put on the newest French heartthrob that had been on my radio station throughout my entire travels through France, Raphael. I want to recall how it was when I was zipping through grape fields and past beaches, happy to be done with work for the day, happy with the afternoon ahead.
In Madison I do not bother to even take suitcases out of the car. Not Thursday, not Friday. Instead, I take Mr. B out for a spin: the day is lovely, sunny, welcome back, welcome back! Indeed, so many similarities here, just look for them:
I eat breakfast late, on the lawn of Monroe’s central quare. The town is some 30 kms from Madison. It has good coffee, great coffee! So it’s okay, no?
I eat Basque Cake that I brought back with me from Southwest France.
Beautiful scenery. Past pastures – see, they have pastures here! Past streams – look, dragonflies! Beautiful, all beautiful.
Finally, the inevitable. I go to the post office and pick up two months’ worth of mail. I drag the suitcases upstairs. I unpack by throwing everything on the floor.
I love it here, in Madison. But... God, a bird has thrown a bunch of shit right on the window before which my computer sits.
And, like in Pierrerue, there are ants in the kitchen.
Now is the time for a good cry.