Heading to the airport where we've decided to check our bags for a change, having bought a Longchamps bag to consolidate some overflow. . .
After a busy day of ambling on Saturday, I passed the point of readiness to be home sometime yesterday afternoon, not wanting to leave hotel room for any more Paris. Isn't that awful?! The nude fat man sighted in the 5th floor window of the building opposite, under the sunlit leaden roof and terra cotta chimneys, was enough diversion for me. that and my purloined copy of Françoise Sagan's Bonjour Tristesse. We'd strolled over my favourite bridge (Passerelle Simone de Beauvoir) had a perfect lunch at a serendipitously discovered restaurant in the 12th, strolled through the Botanic Gardens, tried to find a seat in the Mosquée for mint tea and given up, and I was just done. The lever had been switched. I was done with holidays and travelling and impatient to be home.
What am I impatient for? Hugs from my family. Granddaughter Nola's laugh at my crazy hair and a chance to compare notes with her on Despicable Me II (Paul and I saw the French version here in a doomed attempt to practise our French and find air-conditioning. In fact, the cinema appeared at least as warm inside as if we were still sweltering under the sun). Granddaughter Harriet's display of amazing athleticism as she gets herself in and out of sitting position and holds the pose!
I'm looking forward to a big feed of sushi - our first-night-home tradition is a visit to an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant in Vancouver, our antidote to jet lag.
Looking forward to the shower in our condo which has better water pressure than all the showers of the last 6 weeks combined. Not very green/Eco, I know, but it will feel so good. . .
Vegetables, especially raw and steamed. Salads. Not that the French don't do these, just that they've been harder to come by the last two weeks and I really crave them.
The smell of the sea. Going barefoot to the beach, even with the barnacled rocks scruffing up my soles.
Tea. My own blend of Russian Caravan and Lapsang. Made with loose tea and poured into my favourite, very large, bone china mug. Handle in just the right place, in just the right shape, with a rim that my lips are so familiar with. And I'll drink that tea while sitting in my leather club chair, the window open to let the sea-tangy breeze remind me that I'm back.
The absolute quiet inside my very own living room while Paul's gone to town to get groceries and hit a yoga class. Two hours. all to myself. the luxury.
And my garden. I am so impatient to see my garden. I've missed the bloom of my favourite once-bloomers (Constance Spry, you couldn't wait for me?! Or Complicata? 'Til next year then), but Golden Wings and Graham Thomas and Royal Sunset and Darlow's Enigma and several others will still be blooming. And there is much more to a garden than its roses, certainly. I'm eager to get out with secateurs and trowel and camera. . . And with a book and a cup of tea as well. . .
I'm even keen to get into my office, to get back to planning and preparing for my fall classes. I know exactly where I left a stack of books that need to be tackled. My syllabi need some fine-tuning before I take them in for printing, and I'm looking forward to working on them on my good old PC with its no-longer- taken-for-granted keyboard and its gorgeously big screen.
And speaking of big screens, I'm looking forward to catching up with Mad Men and with Breaking Bad. Vegging in front of the screen seems so appealing after six weeks without.
Not a bad start, is it? I've loved our time away and now I'm going to love being back home. Do you think it takes the one to appreciate the other? Or could you be happy spending most of your time on the road? Or perhaps you're a homebody who sees little good reason to leave the creature comforts of your own hearth.