March, marching forward

Anyone remember how I gave March a bad rap, oh, back in the Fall? I threw out insults as "the worst month ever" with "too much of winter" and "too little of spring?" Well, I'm changing my mind. It takes a pandemic for you to really dig into the beauty of change. During lockdowns, and endless waits for a vaccine, any vaccine, 50% effective-would-be-so-great vaccine, during family separations and birthday parties with no "party" in it, Zoom Thanksgivings and curbside pickups, and no school, no friends, no idea as to when things would change for the better, the grind seemed without end. And now along comes March and it is so clear that no matter what the weather today, we are inching toward spring. Can you imagine? We are inching toward spring!! (And by the way, winter wasn't so awful for us here, in south central Wisconsin either!) 

The day starts early. Ed has a work call, I have a meet up with a friend. I hurry with the chores. Feed the cats: we are all a bouncy, sprightly lot!

And the cheepers. Hi, girls! How's life for you these days? I know, right? Spring is in the air!

Before I take off, Ed and I munch on some fruits and discuss sexism and whether it exists in innocuous comments that unintentionally disparage the successes of girls. Yeah, I often bring up hefty topics before I even have my cup of coffee!

And now comes my reentry into a social event -- one of my most important ones! Coffee with a good friend. In a coffee shop. Inside. She'd asked if I was okay with that and I said yes, so long as there's some social distancing between tables. We go to one place and I said no, not good enough. Too tight. (Besides, it smelled of burnt bacon.) So we go to another and it's perfect! (Except that the table was positioned right below of Russia and N.Korea. We switched tables! Well, because of the squinty overload of sunshine rather than map details!)

It was heavenly to be drinking a cappuccino indoors again.

And in the afternoon, Ed and I go for a walk because the sun is so promising and even the nip in the air does not distract from the slow evolution of seasonal activity. Snow's melting and guess what? The first cranes have appeared. I hear their warble and sure enough: you can see them blending into the wetlands.

Do you think they regret coming when it's still so cold? (It really is still very nippy.)

They're well protected.

How do you know? They head south to avoid the cold!

They head to Florida because they like Florida. They come back because they're fine with the cold.

I don't know about cranes, but I for one love to enter a warm house after a walk in the brisk air! Still, how can you not love a month that promises us the beginning of something so wonderful as spring!

Happy March indeed!

Alpine meadows at home

It is so deliciously gorgeous outside! Just a touch above freezing, so the snow is rapidly melting, but it's still there in large swaths and patches. Squishy wet, spring snow.

 

 

 

Ed and I are taking a walk along our favorite trail in our local county park. He picks up a handful of snow and allows it to melt in his mouth. Eat some, he tells me. Then remember it when we walk here in the summer. I do. And I will.

I comment that the sunshine against the patches of white snow very much reminds me of my Alpine hikes last week. 

It is like an Alpine meadow here, isn't it... he muses. How lucky we are to have this around the corner.

Indeed.

I feel especially lighthearted because I managed to load and start my new computer (to replace the old ones, including my trusty-no-more travel laptop) by myself. Of course, how hard is it to park your old one near your new one, to punch a few buttons and watch the information flow magically through the air from one to the next.

Technology is like magic these days -- this from Ed again. We're lucky to be living in these times.

There it is again, that word that I surely hear a lot (and embrace wholeheartedly): lucky.

All this after breakfast of course...

I had already been out to look for the chickens who had wandered off somewhere, intoxicated by the sunshine, by the palpable coming of spring.

And while the information was flying from one computer to the next, I baked blueberry muffins. Blueberries! Not Alpine, but still magically available, likely from South America. How incredible is that...

In the afternoon, guess what! It's Snowdrop pick up from school time once more! Mask-less at school, as of last week.

Happy and impishly playful.

As are her brothers.

(Is Sandpiper too young for Swiss chocolate?)

Ravishing moments. Made even better with so much luck...

And love.

in between

Well that was weird good luck! Storms and tornadoes just before my flight landed in Madison, turning into a snow event a few hours after I came home. So that today, I woke up to a beautiful layer of snow. over the farmette lands.

Not skiable snow. Too wet for that. Still, in put me back in thought to the mountains.

 

 

 

The mountains came fully to me several times today. At breakfast, I opened a jar of sapin honey: that's from the pine forests of the Rhone-Alpes region of France. There's really no reason to bring a jar of honey home, except that that word sapin on the jar makes me smile. (And I lit a candle that has the scent of a "Montana forest." I cannot tell the difference between the scent of a Montana forest and a Morzine forest, so -- good enough!)

Ed came down sleepily. 

 

 

 

We caught up in the way that I just couldn't last night. I dozed off at least three times in mid-sentence and finally at midnight I gave up and went to bed.

Today isn't a day worth describing in greater detail here, except that it was in fact a good day for me, with small exchanges and lots of chores, but in my view, small exchanges are not nothing! And I chatted to my doc who applauds enthusiastically my desire to seize this time to travel. We talked about my next trip and the one after that and she confessed that she'd been scheming about ambitious trips for her family as well. We all need to scheme to fill our lives with all that we regard as important. 

At home, I am back to cooking dinners and planning menus for the week and by now I know this about myself: travel does not plunge me into greater cooking ambition when I return home. This time, I thought vaguely about baking something with blueberries, but in the end, I let the memory of all those tarts stick within that part of my brain that controls my reserves of smiling activity. Anytime I need to muster up a grin, I'll think of those tarts. No need to bake any at home. [Too, just because some food was my favorite, doesn't mean that everyone here will now regard it as theirs as well. Indeed, I used to bake blueberry tarts a while back. The popular consensus was that apple or raspberry or even strawberry were better. Preferably with creme patisserie and a delicate crust. But that was then. Fruit tarts don't stay grand long enough for me to bake them for just Ed and me. Crust gets soggy after a day or two.]

In the evening I wrote two reviews of hotels I stayed in. That's usually my end chapter of a trip: leave a few good words of praise where praise is due. And the candle burned and Ed made pop corn and we felt grateful for all that we have here every day of our lives.

With love...

going home

Most cities are calm on Sunday. Or calmer, because ultimately, if the weather is good, people do come out. Geneva, at least in the district where I stayed, is not only calm, it is completely zonked out. I stepped out of my hotel this morning, looked this way, looked that way...

Dead. 

I suspected it would feel closed and shuttered when I noticed that no stores open on Sunday. Too, it's a little chilly still. Especially in the early hours. So -- nothing's stirring.

I had eaten breakfast in my little room at the Cigogne. Not that I felt the need to eat in bed.

It was more of a precaution. Infection rates in Switzerland are not exactly low enough to make me want to gratuitously take off my mask in a public dining room and I wasn't sure how crowded it would be. We received many encouragements to order breakfast in the room and so I thought there must be a good reason for it.

Not that I ate much. It's unfortunate to waste this much food, so I made a good effort, but I know I have three flights, and plenty of sitting time. It's not a day for heavy eating.

I took a taxi to the airport. It's only some twenty minutes away (on emptied out streets) and normally I would take the train, but I wasn't going to push it. Might there be traveling crowds? I have skis and a suitcase and a backpack. It's awkward.

We arrived at the airport and it was the same as last week -- total chaos. Long lines, basically standing still, with someone shouting again and again -- Easy Jet, over here, Easy Jet, over here! From what I could tell, "the system" had gone down and everything was running behind schedule. It was impressive then that my Air France flight took off 5 minutes ahead of planned departure.

I had a family with three toddlers behind me. The father suggested, apologetically and in beautiful French, that I perhaps might want to switch seats so that I would sit in front of his little girl rather than in front of his little boy. She's more calm, he said with a "what are you gonna do" expression on his face. Of course, I insisted that the boy wont bother me with his tiny little legs barely reaching my chair. I want to be supportive of parents who fly with little ones. Did I regret it? Let's just say it was a short flight.

Bye Geneva with the tall fountain in the lake..

... and the mountains, hidden behind a layer of haze.

It was grand to be in this part of the world for one short week.

In Paris it's the usual long walk, lots of rechecks and controls, the type of stuff that irritates Ed more than it irritates me. It's something that you mindlessly tolerate. If you start complaining about inconvenience then you may as well stay home and suffer none of it. Travel is rarely without its small snafus. Sort of like life.

I continued on Air France from Paris, all the way to Detroit. Again, I was lucky. We'd had quite the storms and hefty winds in the Midwest. Had I been returning yesterday, I would have had delays and cancellations. As it is, I had plenty of time in Detroit to make my connection and by 10:30p.m. I was driving home to the farmette.

I made it just before the snow came!

So let me offer a post scriptum to this week away. As always I was immensely torn: to write carefully, or to spend the day lost in the mountains, with only the late, late evening hours left to scribble notes on Ocean. Never do I want to say so much with so little time to think it all through as when I travel. No matter. Stuff stays with you in ways you don't fully appreciate until weeks later.

Still, it was very strange to be leaving a Europe at war. If you had asked me how I saw the year 2022 on the eve of the New Year, I would have worried about the pandemic, the climate, a thousand other issues big and small. I would not have thought to worry about the people in the Ukraine, or Poland for that matter, or any other nation within Russia's perceived reach. And here I am, not even done with winter, worried about all those horrors, feeling the need to stay informed to the max, even as there's very little you or I can do to help those who are so in need of help right now. Except -- be smart and stay informed. We owe them that.

At home, Ed is immersed in his projects, Dance is meowing in welcoming ways, the chickens are in the coop, all five thriving still. No predator managed to tear apart their peaceful night. Lucky chickens. Lucky us.

Good night from the farmhouse, with love...

 

Morzine to Geneva

Morzine grows quiet on a Saturday morning. Overnight it emptied out. School kids from Paris are back in Paris. British families have done their week. They're at the airport now. Madame here, at Le Samoyede, told me that next week they expect only one French booking. The rest will be foreigners. Her country men and women tend to stick to set holidays. They like traveling in their granted vacances windows. And for them, the winter vacances window has just closed.

By chance, I overlapped with them and for me too, this is a day of departure. Breakfast is shrinking as we speak!

I have enough time for a walk and I try a new set of blocks, which, unfortunately puts me right by a store type I love in this country: it's a mix of newspapers, cards, books and small toys. You would have to be pretty stubborn in your preferences not to find ten or twenty great things to take back home to your grandkids.  That, and a few cards to put in my stack of greeting cards that are so very useful to have around.

It's sunny, but still cold. I think some chilly winds blew in something resembling Arctic air overnight. I pull up my zipper, and then pull it down again. In an hour and a half, I'll be in Geneva. It's going to get up to 50F (10C) in Geneva today. (This optimism leaves me once I am actually in Geneva. That lake! Such cold breezes blow across it!)

Well, goodbye Morzine. You've been great for taking me out of all the tense times of the pandemic. (I am sorry you're plunking me back down into a world of war!)

The drive seems long. Many curves and inclines. And then there's traffic in the city. Wait, I need to refresh my attitude toward this city that I cannot seem to learn to love. Hey, must be tough to be Swiss, surrounded on all sides (but for a tiny linking strip and half a lake) by France.

My history with Geneva is so complicated. I've come through more than a dozen times and rarely stayed more than a night or two at most. Why linger... If you ever look up the "ten best things to do in Geneva" you'll find that number one on everyone's list is to go look at Geneva's iconic fountain in the lake. I mean, it's pretty, but it's one stream of water. A lot of it, but still -- water.

The second thing that stands out here is the flower clock.

Check. 

And chocolates. Geneva is known for good chocolates. (So are a number of other places, but still. Switzerland = good chocolate.)

 

And there's the old town. I'm staying, as always, close to the old town. This time I have a lovely room at Hotel de la Cigogne. 

 

 

 

But here's the thing: the city is so expensive that I cannot get myself to spend the money on anything but the most basic available. No view. Looks out at a courtyard. But, it is a very nice room. With very crisp linens. Another Swiss classic.

 

 

I did this with the thought that I might be stuck here for a week if my Covid test comes back positive. The shower in the bathroom is so nice that I can see myself standing in its warm stream for maybe two or three hours each day if I run out of things to do in the room itself.

It's past noon now. I leave my bags and head out. 

(The Swiss flag is like the Savoie flag, only the Swill white cross is a tiny bit smaller.)

 

 

 

I walk, not so much to sight see (I've seen the sights! See above...) but to go to the pharmacy that does Covid tests for weary travelers. And it was the best test I have ever had (and I've had a lot!). He did it exactly right, following the nasal canal. And thankfully I am negative. I've been self testing in Morzine every couple of days so you could say I wasn't surprised, but in fact, I was surprised. And a bit relieved too. I had totally entered the stream of life in Morzine. 100%. I did not hold back. I used my good mask constantly when faced with tricky crowds, but I did not stay away from crowded situations.

After the test, I plunged into my Geneva agenda. The thing is, I need to keep busy here, or else I succumb to the city's stiffness and gloom. (Sorry, I keep seeing it that way.)

As I walked, I thought how I should have a real soft spot toward Geneva: this is where the United Nations began, and my father was very much involved in those early formative years of that organization. Had the UN stayed in Geneva instead of moving to New York, I may have lived for several years as a child in this city. I wondered if Geneva is better to live in than to visit. Yet, as I once explained to a friend from Switzerland back when I was much younger -- I can't imagine living in a country that had an even worse record of acquiescing to the rights of women than Poland did and that's saying a lot (women couldn't vote in Switzerland until 1971, and in some cantons' local elections, that date is much later). 

They do have good cheese product thought! Down to the red fruit glazed cheesecake!

 

 

 

I had decided to use this half day to shop for the kids. Clothes. By now I sort of know what they all like and there are shops that could do well by them. So I walk for miles, going to one, not finding the next, finally doing most of my purchases in Petit Bateau which no longer operates out of the US, but still feels to me like the best simple kids clothes store on the planet.  

 

(One of those street selfies...)

 

 

And I pop into Zara, because the prices there are way low (-ish, because this is Switzerland and nothing in this country is way low without the ish).

And this is when I see the cops block of a stream of traffic and I hear it: the march. Thousands of people, feeling the pain that I feel, that I know you feel, marching for the people of the Ukraine.

 

I'm with them. Of course I am. If you were here, you'd join too. How can you not.

(I see this sign and I kick my self for allowing old stereotypes to fester within me! SO easy to misjudge people you don't really know...)

(Oh, and how can you not love a people who plant crocus bulbs in their grass strips!)

 

Evening: a negroni in the lovely hotel lobby now that I know I dont have Covid...

Dinner: well, I thought about this for a good bit before I even left home. Eating in Geneva has always felt depressing to me. I will happily eat alone at any restaurant in most any country. But in Switzerland I feel like somehow everyone's speaking a different language (even though in Geneva they speak French) and no meal is worth that feeling of distance between yourself and your surroundings. And have I ever mentioned the fact that people here seem like they are way stodgier than even me, and I'm 68, so pretty stodgy, just by virtue of age. (These are my feelings which probably have more to do with me than with Genevens.) So I pick a Nordic place, where a woman is a chef and she is quite renowned and by the way, despite the food's reputation, they don't use table cloths. So not stodgy.

It's called Fiskbar and it's less than ten minutes from my hotel. Across the bridge.

 

 

 

The short distance is important -- I'm not a little tired. (An admission: I loved my hotel in Morzine, but the internet speed was ... slow. I stayed up til at least midnight every day trying to get the photos to load. 25 pics each day -- that's many hours of patient waiting until I could get them onto the blog. So I will be making up for lost sleep once I get back home.) 

I dont have to praise the food at Fiskbar. It goes without saying that it is excellent. It's the first time I will have eaten in a Michelin rosette place since I took my kids to one back in Paris before most of the grandkids were even born. For all I know, it may be the last rosette place I go to! It's a rare night that I decide it's worth the drain on my retirement savings.

But tonight, it is in fact worth the drain. It's been a harrowing two years and we have no idea what the next ones will bring. So, I eat well tonight. 

Though it's never just about the food. To have a good meal, you have to know a little of what's behind it. And you have to like what you learn. This evening, for example, Fiskbar's chef, Francesca Fucci Priscilla came out to chat with me. I suppose one gets curious about the solo ancient woman diner who speaks French, but looks like she's from elsewhere. (Perhaps less stodgy. I tried!) In any case, we talked. I of course praised her brilliant imagination (because this is what stood out for me -- not only the preparation, but the creativity, behind everything. ) We talked, too, a little about Covid. I said -- well, at least that's passing for now. And she said -- yes, but now there's a war! 

So then instead of talking about the fantastic way she prepared a clementine within a meringue in olive oil (she may cook Nordic, and speak French, but she's Italian! From Puglia!)...

 

... we talk about the war.

 Francesca is both brilliant and a very decent human being.

And after, I walk back to the hotel and I think -- I was young, and so often I felt lost in this city. I'm older and I no longer feel lost. People are people. When you see them marching in earnest, draped in blue and yellow flags, when you meet them in their own anxious moment after a meal, you remember: Geneva isn't really that much different from any other city. It's just more expensive and maybe a little stiff. Until you see and meet the people who actually live here and it turns out they're not stiff at all.

A pinch in the arm moment: good people are there. All wanting the same peace, the same good life for themselves, for their kids.

All under one moon.

with love...

Morzine, all over the place

My last day in Morzine, in the Haute Savoie of France. And guess what? I wake up to sunshine! I don't know that I ever had such a glorious weather break during my travels. Consistent perfection is hard to come by. So what would you do on your last day of vacation? Repeat a favorite? Reach for something new? Do nothing, because back home you imagined that there would be days when you would do nothing? 

Breakfast as you know is my big decision making moment here. And sure enough, right when I sit down to my morning meal, I feel the tug to do something new one last time. I've hopped around the various mountains, the gondolas, the cross country trails, and memorably -- I hiked a trail that put me on a cloud of quiet beauty, without any of that frenzy that comes with downhill ski visitors. Did I miss out on anything? Well, there's THE lake. The one I aimed for but missed completely. The one that's written up in the booklet. The one whose name I now remember -- Lake de Montriond.

Should I take my skis? It is possible to do some cross country stuff there. Yet once again I opt to leave them home. The long loop past the lake has several interesting curves and detours. you can't do them if you're on skis. Skis stay home.

And I eat a more modest breakfast. I'm winding down my extravagance! There will soon come a day when it will be a meal of a bowl of oatmeal or one muffin. In good times -- one croissant. I need to reacquaint myself with that smaller meal again. So, one egg, in a cup, one croissant. (And some yogurt and fruit -- that's a given, no matter where I am.)

And then I take my poles, grab my sun screen and my camera and head down to the lower, older section of Morzine.

From there, a bus will take me to the tip of the lake.

I expected it to be an empty bus,  like all previous buses I've ridden here, but it begins to fill. With skiers. Most of them British. Why? Well, beyond the lake there is yet another gondola going up yet another mountain. They're heading there. Maybe it's a favorite among visitors from the Isles. Maybe it plays British rock at the base. In any case,  it's an annoying crowd. Not all, but many of the young British skiers flaunt the mask mandate where it's still in place here (like on buses). I get it -- the UK has long dropped any and all Covid mandates and precautions. But this is France. When the bus driver refuses to let one guy on until he puts on his mask, the young man digs out some scarf thing from his back pack, pulls it up, and then down again once he is seated. His buddies do the same.

British young men get a bad rap from me in travel. They are, to me, the current Ryan Air menace. Wherever Ryan Air flies, be prepared for their arrival. In Krakow. In Prague. In Geneva, and therefore Morzine. They drink copious amounts of beer, sometimes spiked with things that come in little bottles. They party late. Not only do they brag about this on the bus, but, too, I hear them outside as I stay up late working on my post. They don't hide their habits.

It's always tough to be included in a demographic that's spewing bad behaviors abroad and so I feel empathy for all the British people who do not feel they have to dominate spaces they visit. There are many, many UK residents and visitors in France and to date, they've been welcomed as really the most perfect guests. (Except for their weird eating habits that the French do not understand  and tendency to turn pink in the sun.) But college aged men traveling together seem to bring with them trouble. Ah well -- I have none at my hotel. They don't especially seek out places where meals are 100% local dishes, and pouring little pocketed bottles of strong stuff into your beer is discouraged.

I get off at Lac de Montriond, happily leaving all those skiers behind. The bus pulls away, I exhale.

Now about the lake.

I've said this before -- a lake in winter just looks white. Like a meadow that hasn't yet received permission to grow colorful flowers. A blank slate. 

Still, Lac de Montriond is in a very attractive spot. The cliffs to one side are dramatic and do impart an aura of Canada wild. (That is in fact the way the booklet describes it here: Canada-like wilderness.)

But I notice something else: it is damn cold on the path that weaves to the side. For the first time since I came here, I feel chilled. I brought with me my light gloves -- my fingers now are freezing. I skipped a sweater knowing that there would be sunshine and I should therefore feel as hot as I felt the other days at noon. But where is the sun?

Oh, over there! Behind the cliffs.

Without the sun, the walk is hard to truly enjoy. 

At the other end of it, I consider my options. I go up into the forest a little, but the path is completely shady. And cold.

I see that there is a little restaurant here as well. There are no chairs outside. Without sunshine, there can be no swing back chair dining in the open. Going in on a sunny day doesn't tempt me. Even the promise of a brand new blueberry tart doesn't tempt me. 

I don't continue. Instead, I turn around and follow alongside the lake again, appreciating the one or two sunny spots along the way, and I go up on the road and catch the bus back to Morzine. This time I get off by this pedestrian bridge (by the super-morzine gondola):

I did not think I would have problems crossing it, but the darn thing sways with the wind. Woosh, rock, sway. Does the George Washington Bridge sway too? No? I didn't think so! This one does.

On the other side of it is the gondola station. I almost want to hop on now: the vision of that little cafe where I bought a cappucino on my Avoriaz excursion is so strong! But I don't have a valid pass for this gondola anymore. It would be a very expensive cappucino were I to bay a day ticket to ride up for some sunshine and coffee.

But I DO still have a pass for the other Morzine gondola! The one I took up the first full day here. 

And so this is how I fit in a bit of skiing: I really do want a parting ski run, and I really want some sunshine. Preferably warm sunshine , hitting me in all places where I have rubbed on some sun screen.

I pick up my ski paraphernalia at the hotel, give a nod to the musicians just outside...

 

 

 

...And then hop onto the (empty) gondola. And I do smile at the kid skiers up there. It's a popular place for ski schools and many are ending their vacation group lessons today. Prizes are given out (stickers). The atmosphere is jovial.

The future speed demons of the slopes! May you prosper and slow down occasionally in life.

I thought I'd find one of my cross country trails and show off to myself how strong I am after a week of both hiking and skiing. But I missed the turn off and the paths were still slick and icy and I thought -- why continue?

 

 

Why indeed! So instead, I ski up to Le Vaffieu -- the restaurant high in the hills that gave me my first blueberry tart here. I don't ask for that tart today, because Le Vaffieu also gave me one of the best Tartine Chevres ever! That opened faced goat cheese sandwich is often my go to lunch choice in France, including  when I am in Paris, but the one I had on the mountain was so awesome, I wanted to repeat it. Oftentimes, the bread is too hard or the cheese is too melted. This one really was perfect. And it was perfect today as well. I pulled out a little table next to a swing back chair, with a view of that distant from here Mt Blanc...

And I thought -- this is a warm fuzzy moment I want to keep with me. I even ordered the white Savoie wine to complete the wonderfulness. You see it on the tray? Well, that was the last anyone will have seen it, since I managed to bump the table immediately after, and so the wine spilled onto my backpack. It now smells of Savoie wine. There could be worse things to bring home than the smell of Savoie wine.

After a very wonderful half hour in that chair, listening to two French families in the background discuss something that was important to them and seemed so trivial to me, I got up and skied down to the gondola. And this was a good run: a long downhill incline, shared with beginning skiers (which for cross country boards is perfect), with plenty of snow that felt for once like snow rather than packed ice particles.

 And here's another good thing: I had a little time still to do what I've wanted to do all week long: sit on my little balcony back at the hotel in their comfy chair and close my eyes and do nothing at all. It didn't last, but still, I felt  my cup to be very full indeed. (Waiting for me inside -- a cappuccino. Because I'm feeling way too dozy with all those sunshine minutes and moments of relaxation.)

Evening dinner. Last one at Le Samoyede. Incredible meal. The foie gras maison stands out, laced as it was with honeyed spice bread. And the fish -- perfectly prepared. You know, I used to be a foodie when it was not yet fashionable to be that, and I sort of dropped off to the side in the last decade or two. Ed isn't going to fuss about the sauces I labor over, or the perfect presentation of fish. But every once in a while, I'm sucked into the world of great food, prepared by artists of the kitchen and I recognize all the nuanced difficulties and I take in the markers of success. Inadvertently, I stumbled onto this kitchen in this rather fresh and honest family hotel in the mountains, and every dinner has been an exquisite reminder of what it means to take great care with the ingredients this planet provides for us. So much talent there is in so many kitchens! I am grateful that I got to sample Alexandre's for at least this one week.

Tomorrow morning I leave for Geneva. I'll be there for just one night. On Sunday, I'll be reunited with the chickens, and the cats, and Ed. 

For one last time, goodnight from the Alpine village of Morzine. I can only wish that the peace I felt here could spread to every corner of the planet. To the people of Ukraine. To all those who are in a daze of worry right now.

With love...