rekindling a lost love

Sometimes a song sticks in your head because something about it is fitting. And then you hum it to yourself over and over, even though the lyrics in their entirety resonate with your life not at all.  It's sort of like singing somewhere over the rainbow because you happen to see a bluebird fly by.  My song du jour is Far Away (the Boys and Girls rendition) and the lyrics that bounce around in my head go like this:

I will live my life as a lobsterman's wife
On an island in the blue bay
He will take care of me, he will smell like the sea
And close to my heart he'll always stay

I will bear three girls all with strawberry curls
Little Ella and Nelly and Faye
While I'm combing their hair, I will catch his warm stare
On our island in the blue bay

Far away, far away, I want to go far away
To a new life on a new shore line
Where the water is blue and the people are new
To another island, in another life.

(I know one Ocean commenter will appreciate the reference to a lobsterman's wife, as she is that. Me, I'm sort of drifting in "where the water is blue and the people are new"  lyrics.)

*****

I wake up to a day of pink clouds and, at least initially, faintly blue skies between them. This is the view toward the fields in the back of my small house.





Yes, this is Brittany. I'm dusting off an old love here. She was my favorite. She was to be the place I would covet, long for, return every chance I got. But, I turned my back on Brittany when Ed and I discovered Sorede in the south. And now that Ed has had his fill of Sorede (and I surely will never go there alone), I am back, courting my old flame, my Brittany, begging for forgiveness, proclaiming my loyalty henceforth. And admiring her beauty anew.

At first Brittany pouts. That wisp of blue sky? That was just at sunrise. Quickly the clouds take over. And this is not uncommon here. Sorede does, in fact, have more days of sunshine. Indeed, when Aurelia parked her car in a lot by the St Pol de Leon swimming pool, I asked if that was an indoor pool because there were quite a number of cars there. She had laughed -- we could not have an outdoor pool here. Even in the summer, it can be quite cool.


If I strain my neck, I can see the sea now from my little house. But as the clouds take over and the color of the sea fades to that of the sky, it becomes difficult to distinguish one from the other.





There is, all morning long, a threat of rain. And by afternoon, the threat is realized and it rains. And rains. And rains.

*****

Even had it rained in the morning, I would have hiked to town. Tuesday is market day in St Pol de Leon. I surely want to see that. And, too, I want my morning cafe-croissant.

And so I head out. My little house is on the outskirts of town (whereas the one I was to be in was smack in the center), but in St Pol de Leon, this hardly matters. The town is small. It's twice the size of Sorede, but still hardly more than a village. At last count, there were about 7000 Saintpolitains (that's what residents here are called) and the number is steadily declining. (I note that the owners of my first problematic rental and, too, of my current little house are both of the younger generation and both of them live in Paris.)

I walk to town between the stone homes and the fields of harvested chou. Classic Brittany: stone walls, artichaut and chou.  Chou means cabbage. And there are many varieties: chou blanc, chou rouge, chou fleur (cauliflower!), chou frise -- in the grocery store, they're all lined up for you, one next to the other. So, my walk to the center ( a mere ten minutes or so) is past this:






And as I get closer to the heart of town, I come across other familiar sights: the decorative lace curtains in doors and windows.






The hearty Bretagne folk, pausing, of course, to exchange greetings and stories from the week.






And everywhere, there is that stone: the building material of choice here for hundreds of years.






Let me give you an overview of the main street in town and then we'll scoot right to the market.






....where they're selling, well, cabbage.






...and another Brittany favorite: crepes. Either sweet or buckwheat. You buy them by the stack. For future use.






I leave the market for a little while. I want my coffee. There is a lovely little bakery -- I had purchased bread there last night, and I go there now because it has a few tables -- perfect for a cafe creme and morning pastry. What to eat? Oh, easy -- I want what she's having!






Heaven on a plate. (With a light almond paste inside and almonds on the outside -- mmmm.)






I spend a while at the cafe. It's a warm room with a friendly staff. Madame remembers me from the other day, frantically buying bread and asking about WiFi; they in fact have it and she tells me I can surely use it now. I smile: no no, not necessary. During the day, I am cut off from the rest of the world.

Other patrons? Varied. Since it's a school holiday, there will be the child and parent. And this lobsterman, who comes in dripping with water, even as he is clad from head to toe in rubber garb. He comes in, shakes his wet hand with this person, that person and sits down to read the paper and drink his coffee.







Okay, time to leave. That threat of rain is not to be taken lightly. Yesterday's storms are still in my head. I'd like to stay dry for as long as I can. Time to pick up a baguette, a bag of meringues and to set out.






I'm back at the market now, not to look, well -- only a quick look. For instance, at the small handful of lobsters and crabs,  and at the bucket loads of shrimp and langoustines...






...but really, I am now in the buying mode. I pick up a honey cake (did I tell you about Brittany honey? They say it has the distinct flavor of the sea...), and an herbal tea made of local flowers and propolis, a few stalks of endive and, too, a portion of prepared chicken stew. If there'll be rain, I wont feel like searching for a place to eat. At every market I've ever been to in France, there is always a stand where you can pick up a container of prepared food: either paella or stew. Today I find a stand selling aromatic chicken tagine and couscous. This will be my supper.






One last glance at the market, at the kids who amuse themselves as grandparents -- the baby sitters of choice during school breaks -- shop...






And then I do a quick side step to the tourist office for maps and another side step to the super marche for a six pack of mineral water and a bottle of rose wine. Along the way, I pass a garden square which speaks to the fact that spring has come to northern France.






(People back home -- take heart! Surely yours is the last snowstorm of the season!)

In that small square you'll also find a statue. If I had to pick an icon for Ocean, I would consider it.





It comes with a stone at the side, engraved with the words -- celui qui regarde passer les autres. One who watches others passing by.   Ocean words.


And now I return toward my small house by the fields where a new crop of cabbage is being harvested, even as the skies release the first drops of rain.






*****

I spend a leisurely afternoon reading and watching the French news on TV. I know I can read about the crisis in the Ukraine on my computer, but I want to improve my French vocabulary and so I listen to the French voice-over of the Putin press conference.

I have a flashback then to the words of a rather nasty commenter to my Friday post. I almost never post nasty comments, or comments of people who have a history of being disrespectful, but I published that one because I thought it spoke to the odd notions people develop about countries that they have never been to and that they do not really understand. The commenter admitted as much. He wrote something to the effect that he doesn't "get"Poland.

And I'm thinking now how I lived in Poland in the years when it was recovering from the most brutal attack at the hands of our western neighbor: Nazi Germany. And, too, I lived in Poland in the year when the Soviet army marched into Czechoslovakia to the south. And now, here I am, about to go back to Poland as the Russians mobilize forces to the east, in the Ukraine.

Historically, has the Baltic Sea (to the north) been Poland's calmest neighbor? Imagine living in a country where no century passes without a stormy threat to the west, or south, or east. Or north, really, because the Baltic Sea is never fully calm.

I'm remembering, too, the short bus right to the plane that brought me from Poland to France. A young mother was explaining everything around us to her very young son. And he is delighting in all of it: the bus, the planes and now he points to a military helicopter and he is excited because he knows the world for it! Helicopter! Her mood changes. She frowns. And she tells him -- you don't have to get excited about that. I don't like it. It's a war helicopter. Boys, playing their war games.  The boy looks crestfallen at her suddenly dampened enthusiasm. After a pause, she smiles again and points to the Wizzair plane we were then approaching.

Poland is scarred by centuries of invasions. Of war.

I continue to watch the news. You don't need a huge vocabulary to understand what's going on in the Ukraine right now.

*****


It's nearly six and I notice that it's not dark yet. And that the rains have settled into a fine drizzle. That's walkable! I have a jacket! I need a gaze in the direction of the sea. Brittany is the province with the longest coastline. It is cabbages and artichokes inside, but it's all about the ocean at the edges.

So I walk toward the water and I take note of how wet this winter has been and how wet it remains today. Wet artichoke fields, spilling out to the gray ocean waters. (This part of Brittany is just where the English Channel stops and the Atlantic Ocean begins.)










It's an invigorating (if somewhat damp) walk. A wonderful encounter again with the Brittany that I once loved and am prepared to love again.

*****

I end the day with a hearty bowl of chicken tagine. With bread and cheese and a glass of rose wine.

Monday revisited, or -- when things go wrong

It was, as I said, a delightful Parisian morning with my friends.





Truly delightful.

I had read that there were to be winds and rains, all the way to the Atlantic coast of France, but it hardly mattered. It's a travel day for me. And trains, unlike planes, are indifferent to such forecasts.

And indeed, the train trip is absolutely perfect. I doze, but not too much (fear of missing my stop is very real when I am sleepy). I eat my packed lunch...





I read my book and I gaze out the large window. The changing landscape on a day that vacillates between wet and sunny is beautiful to observe from the warm shelter of a speeding train. Four hours and 530 kilometers later, we approach Morlaix...






This is nearly the farthest western point in France. And from this rather large town, the rail link continues to the coast, but you have to take a rail operated bus. It's all part of one rail ticket: segment one -- to Morlaix, segment two -- to St Pol de Leon, only now by bus, leaving ten minutes after the arrival of the train.

Unfortunately, the rain now is whipping at us from left and right. I say "us" because there is another guy who is looking for the bus to St Pol de Leon. A curious young fellow, chomping incessantly on M&M peanuts, dressed in those jeans that hang more than halfway down your butt. He wasn't traveling from Paris. He just wants that segment that would take him, like me, to St Pol de Leon.

I look for the bus. Not there. I ask inside. Madame looks at my ticket and shakes her head.
The 16:25 doesn't run today. It's school break. (hiccup no.1)

It turns out Brittany children have a week off now and when that happens, the schedule of every form of public transportation changes. But of course, this is no big surprise. Why was the ticket issued then for a segment that doesn't exist? (I had purchased it at a rail station, when I was in France in December.)
Madame at the ticket counter shakes her hand, as if to indicate that there are some mysteries of the rail system that just cannot be explained.

All is not lost! She tells me to report to the Chef d'Escale (station manager). She smiles wickedly: they will have to pay for your taxi to St Pol de Leon!

Well now, that is terrific! A taxi ride costs more than my entire ticket from Paris to St Pol de Leon! And the French Rail is comping it? How nice is that! (It is particularly nice since they could have just told me to wait for the evening bus, which, for me, would have been truly disastrous, as my Airbnb hosts are waiting to meet this earlier bus and I have no way of contacting them to tell them of a change.)

And so my chocolate covered peanut chomping guy, who profits from their mistake towards me, climbs into the taxi with me and we zip up the twenty or thirty kilometers north, as the scenery gets more and more Brittany-like: artichokes and cabbages and mixed skies of an unsettled day.






With the sea, popping into view now and then.





The cab driver lets us out at the once functional but now deserted train station of St Pol de Leon. The wind is brutal! The first feeling of cold creeps in. I want my hosts not to be late!

And they're not late. Or, rather she is not late. Aurelia, driving up in her mother's car to take me to what is actually her Parisian brother's newest project: the apartment rental in downtown St Pol de Leon.

She parks her car in one of the narrow alleys off the square and we make our way to the little apartment that is curiously spread out on three levels: entrance hall on the ground, kitchen and living room on the next floor and bathroom and bedroom on the top. Each room has an individually controlled radiator and they're all turned off for now. (Hiccup no.2) Understandably, I suppose. This form of heating is expensive.

She shows me the rooms, they are fine, if cold. I want so much to get to those radiators, but first, there are things to learn: the mechanics of the place. The washer. The stove. The shower. The lights. The keys. They usual. I thank her for the basket of Brittany goodies they have left for me: fish soup, a packet of crepes, salted caramels, lots of fruit, cider.

And then I smile and say: let's make sure the WiFi is working. The grin is there because I have been such a pest in corresponding with the brother: I have questioned and insisted on a functional WiFi so many times that it's almost a joke by now.

You'll think that it's because of Ocean that I am so insistent on WiFi. It's not that. I have blogged for many years where WiFi in my inexpensive quarters was but a dream. For Ocean, I can always find a cafe where I can load ready photos and publish a text written off line. I love the internet because it makes solo travel less lonely. I am connected round the clock with people whom I love. I keep up with what's happening at home. I love Skyping Ed, checking in just before I fall asleep and when I first wake up in the morning. I can be without it all day long, but as the dusk creeps in, I want my link to the friendly world of the familiar faces. Especially now, as I am so exhausted and still reeling from a set of days that sent me spinning.

And so Aurelia dictates the code and it's a long one and I wait for the familiar bars to take hold and they don't. (Hiccup no.3) We assume I mistyped. Then we assume she misremembered. Then she unplugs and resets. Then she calls the company and they troubleshoot. Then she calls her brother in Paris and finally her father (whom she refers to, in very French English, as un geek). He tells her he will bring a new box as soon as he is done with work.

It is cold. It is raining. (Hiccup no.4) I ask about the nearest place to eat. Oh, a creperie! Across the alley! A great one, she tells me. Only we look in and see that it's closed for the week of the school holiday. As is the one next to it. And the others don't respond when she tries to call them from her "mobile." (Hiccup no.5)

Aurelia is so apologetic! I feel sorry for her, I really do. And, too, for the brother who helplessly waits in Paris. But, I am cold and wet and the hours are passing and I hate to walk from floor to floor now, while she is here, to turn on heaters in all the room -- so I just turn on one, in the kitchen where we are standing, only it never quite fills the space with the warm air that I so very much would love to feel right now. Tiredness makes you that much colder.

Realizing that I may have trouble finding a place to eat on this stormy night (because the weather has been upgraded to the level of an official storm), I tell her that maybe I should go to the grocery store to stock up for supper. She drives me there and to the bakery and I get the bread, the cheese, the bottle of wine which I so want to crack open and start drinking, right now!

Her father comes and changes the box and tries to fix the line outside and in so doing he crashes the curtain rods and I just feel so badly for them all, because they are such good, Bretagne folks and this new project which was supposed to be a little boost for the brother is turning out to be such a headache.

I worry that Aurelia is away from her baby daughter and so when everything fails and they have no more answers for today, I send them home and I take my computer out in the pounding rain in search of a bar with WiFi and I find one, though it is nearly closing, but I sit there long enough to connect, to post, read a few emails from home and to send a message to my Parisian host, telling him that I am willing to give it a day or so, but then I'll have to move on.

But lo! He sees I am on line and he responds instantly! He has been at work looking for solutions from Paris and he found one! Another home (not theirs, just something on the Internet) for me, just outside of town! Aurelia will pick me up and take me there to stay as long as the issues at their apartment remain unfixed.

Dear, dear Aurelia -- a year younger than my youngest daughter, waiting back at the apartment, flushed but happy to be taking me to a warm and connected home just at the edge of the artichoke and cabbage fields of Brittany.

She apologizes incessantly as she drives me there and to take her mind off this apartment stuff, I ask her about her work. She wanted to be a teacher, but she ends up selling the fish caught here, in Brittany to restaurants in Paris.
What's in season now?
Sea bream, scallops are starting. Lobster is so expensive, because of all the storms we have been having!

And so we find the little home by the Brittany fields, with a view toward the sea, only I don't know that yet, because it is dark when Madame Herveline welcomes us to her daughter's rental project -- a brand new house, spiffy and big enough to accommodate a family of eight! And best of all, it has floor heat (it takes a while to catch on, but when it does -- bliss!) and a speedy Internet and here I will stay, for a while at least, even as the winds rage and the rains come and go -- it all does not matter, I am warm and dry and connected.

Monday

 I'm running on sleep borrowed from another era. My head stubbornly refuses to embrace the new normal of European time. Sleep before 3 am? Nonsense!

Another part of me, equally stubborn, is ready to get up and get going early, very early. And so the struggle continues and the stored supplies of rest are getting thinner by the day.

All that notwithstanding, it was extremely delightful to wake up in my friends' little slice of Parisian heaven, on the corner of the Place des Vosges.

We took it easy though. Plans to eat an elaborate breakfast elsewhere fizzled and Diane and I went out to pick up bakery items and bring them home.

And so it was a leisurely morning, a leisurely breakfast and then I am, once again, off off and away.


When you plan trips in advance, it's sometimes easy, sometimes hard to anticipate what your mood will be at the time of travel. I had had an ambitious agenda for these two weeks in between my stays in Warsaw, but I am quickly abandoning it now. I don't want to visit new cities, I don't want to have any agenda, sightseeing or otherwise. So I'll stay in France, splitting my time in some yet to be determined proportion between the coast and Paris (depending on the expenses involved in balancing the two).

First, the sea.

This part I am truly looking forward to. I wrote now some years ago how my idea of a perfect getaway in France is Brittany. A place of gentle weather (not too cold, not too hot), of invigorating sea breezes, of great walks (rather than taxing climbs), of cider and crepes, seafood and artichokes -- a kind of down to earth, or rather down to the sea region that restores every part of you.

There are any number of places along the northern Brittany coast where I would have been quite happy. I chose one with an attractive rental -- an Airbnb place owned by a Parisian couple with roots in the region. It's in St Pol de Leon, which is a small town just a few paces from Roscoff (Roscoff being a seaside destination that Ed and visited whey back when).

And so, equipped with lunch, I take the noon TGV (high speed train), all the way to the farthest western corner of northern France. In Morlaix, I am to get off the train and continue by bus to  St Pol de Leon (I have never heard anyone abbreviate it to just St. Pol and so I must conform and use its full and stately name).


And this is when troubles begin for me. Travel troubles. I can list about five things that unravel, but I wont say more than that, because I am sitting in a cold bar on a cold and stormy night and the bar is about to close and I have no other way to access the Internet tonight. (Obviously, you'll have determined that access to the Internet is one issue, but honestly -- it's not the only one.)

To sunnier skies and warmer rooms and good connections -- Internet and otherwise!

Sunday

A Sunday in the park. That's what I want. But, Lazienki -- Warsaw's finest (in my mind, Europe's finest) public green space, is a metro ride away and there are still things to attend to at home -- boring things, paper things, bowing to the demands of bureaucracies, things that brought me here in the first place. And things to discuss, plans to review -- all that. So is there a time for the park? Even as I have an afternoon flight to catch?

Yes, sure there is.

I've posted photos of Lazienki before and, as I have nearly always visited Warsaw in the winter since Ocean came to life, the photos have shown an austerity that is so very misleading. My sister would say that Warsaw is at her best in May. Well, Lazienki, too, is at its best in May. So you have to use your special eyes, the ones that can dress the park with leaves of spring, with rosebushes just starting to bud, with lilacs and with willows that truly weep their leaves right into the waters of the park pond.

Or, look at the park as I looked at it today -- as a place where people gather despite the weather (as usual -- cold, misty cold, with a bite that touches the bones, even as the thermometer shows some silly number like 5 C).  Lazienki is beloved and, too, it is for those who are enthralled with love. It is a place to teach children about squirrels and ducks and swans and peacocks. Walk here and lift the weight off your shoulders (because the walk will have hills and so it will not be without exercise and we know that exercise can really do wonders for weighted shoulders). Walk, walk, remember, shape new memories, smile, watch others, think of change, think of what will, for you, never change.

Despite all those children and lovers and groups of visitors, Lazienki is a quiet place. It's like entering a temple, or maybe it's because the trees are so tall that it makes you feel singularly reverent, but in any case, you can be assured of a quiet stroll.

So, I'll be quiet too, for a while. And I'll post my few photos, perhaps too familiar to some of you -- sorry about that: it is a familiar place to me as well, so we're in the same boat! -- but here it is, my hour in Lazienki:































And now the afternoon is tick-tocking by, rather quickly at that and maybe I should hurry, but there is still that cup of coffee to be had and aren't I close to that block again? That one that my sister and I explored our first day? The one that is just establishing itself in a new way (and soon to be pedestrian, maybe)? With the cafe where the coffee was good and the apple raspberry cake sublime?






So I pause here. There are two cafe guys now, so it's double the charm and friendliness and delight.
Is the cake all done for today? -- I ask, noting the empty cake stand.
Yes, but you know, our baker, she's about to deliver a fresh one! Hot from the oven!
No no, I have a flight to catch...
It's nearly here, on the way, you'll be eating it in no time!


Indeed.






Metro ride to my sister's -- so that I can pick up my bag, then a bus ride to the airport -- expertly detailed by my sister who took such good care of me on this trip, then a Wizzair flight to Paris.



 



Or, rather to Beauvais, because, well, it's a super discount airline and so Paris is still just a mirage, somewhere there, but not yet quite here.

One more bus ride, a very very long bus ride, and one more metro ride and now, finally, I emerge at Bastille in Paris, or, rather at the metro stop where the canal, the lights, the train are all swimming in my already overcrowded head.


 



 And I walk to an apartment just off the Place des Vosges...


 



... where, the world is so terribly small, because I can meet up now with my friends, Diane and Ernest, who just happen to be living here for a month and so, how wonderful is this! -- I can end the day in their handsome quarters, with a sip of rose and a shared meal of bread, cheese, ham, quiche and of course, their warm and welcoming smiles...





We exchange stories from our past days, weeks, or from no particular time at all. Call them eternal stories that we all tell and repeat because -- surely this is true? -- our stories are mere repetitions of other people's stories, joyous, macabre, delightful -- they've been described elsewhere, by others, they are not unique.

Or maybe they are unique. Just a little unique. Seemingly the same, but really, snowflakes, all.

Saturday

Can I cheat today, please? A day of few words?  You'll understand, I know you will. My reasons: I couldn't sleep last night. Tossed and turned until 3. Worse, snippets of senseless conversation ran through my head in rapid succession and I had to let it all run its course.

And now, it's nearly midnight again and I'm tired.

It was my last full day in Poland with my sister. I'm off tomorrow. We could have taken it easy, I suppose. It's Chopin's birthday and we could have celebrated it by listening to piano music, reminiscing about days when we ran to listen to the participants in the Chopin Competition play their required pieces.

We didn't do that. We had breakfast:






And after, we went to the apartment where I lived my teens years and where for the last thirty years my dad lived with his partner.

Nothing changes there and yet, of course, nothing is the same. It is the first time that I am there without my dad and perhaps the strangest thing is that the place is so full of his absence and his presence that it is just so terribly confusing.

My sister, my dad's partner, her brother and I drive out to the country then. There is a family cabin, not too far from Warsaw. The little house has been much neglected in recent years, but it has small elements of a past life and we all want to walk the property now. A property that has been, as the neighbors tell us, ravaged by wild hogs just in the past weeks.





Wild hogs! How... exotic!

We all go inside. There are stacks of just about anything and everything, all indicating a past presence, maybe a hurried exit. Or a desire to pack up and leave, or maybe a willingness to let things stay, never fully unpacked. Who can tell...






We walk through the rooms. It's a small place, but I haven't been here for such a long time (being the wild thing that I am, the one that flew off to America) that it all seems strangely of another world. And it's cold, of course. I let the rest poke around inside. I prefer the outdoor world right now. Where the wild hogs roam.











The little cottage is in a village that boasts mineral springs and vapors in the summer. Thousands of Poles come during the warm season to take in the potent steamy air. They sit, walk, talk, all the while breathing deeply right here. (I took my girls to it once, when they were much much younger. They were skeptical, or amused, but they took in a few deep breaths dutifully. They reemerged cured of all evil bugs  and viruses. Or something.)






We walked through the spa park, but it is too cold for a real stroll. We detour to the local cafe where I admire the other component of this pre-Lent week of indulgences: fired cookies, dusted with powdered sugar.






But I choose, instead, my Polish favorite. Just like my grandmother used to make. Dense with poppy seeds:






My sister and my dad's partner buy pastry to take home. Home. Where is that for you, dear Ocean readers?






Late afternoon now. My sister and I return to her apartment briefly, to pick up bags that I wont need for the next ten days. Bags that brought things here and will take other things away. My closest friend here in Poland has stepped up to take them from me for now and so my sister and I take the subway (where I look across the car at this very Polish looking scene)...






...and we meet my friend at yet another of those most wonderful, modern, imaginative, funky cafes of Warsaw.






It's been so long since I've talked to her! Fifteen months! So we stay a while to catch up on just the basics. But not too long. My sister and I have a date back in the old apartment -- now my dad's partner's home. There, we're served something that apparently originates from a recipe invented by my father. I will make it for you if you ever come to the farmhouse for an evening drink: it's home grown quince basked in vodka. Oh my!

I notice tonight the chair where I would, in the last five years, always find my father sitting. I visited him in the evenings and it is evening now and the scene looks peculiarly familiar.






So we have this home made drink and then we are guests for dinner -- at a place that my dad loved -- a place of Polish foods, mainly meats, lots of meats, grilled meats, ribs, brats, pig's hoof, blood sausage, you name it. I'm somewhat overwhelmed by the amount of food, but our hosts  are encouraging. It's good with dark bread, cheese, white cheese, or more meat. Cabbage. There's lots of raw cabbage as well. White, red, purple. Cabbage of color!






Night. I am now at my sister's home again. The radio playes gentle classical music. She is asleep, I am not. I think about what's next. Tomorrow, yes, that. And in the long run and the medium run. Interspersed with thoughts of what was already there, in our past.

And so I guess I failed at keeping Ocean without words. Maybe typing these short snippets will release them and so they wont run in circles in my head again all night long. Maybe.

I'll write briefly from Paris tomorrow. I'm there for just 18 hours. But I will write. It appears that if there is one thing that's for sure, it is this: I will write.