Walking on Thin Ice

We’re coaxing happiness out of the last bit of French sunshine before we return to the US. The kitchen window looks out over an ancient hill town, old Mediterranean roof tiles - directly across the window, vine hangs on wall, heavy with passion fruit.

The back bedroom window looks over fields of grapevines, and the Pyrenees mountains are purple on the horizon. In the back yard we have several fig trees, and they just happen to be ripe right now. The owner made some fig jam and left some for us to try. She bade us eat as many figs as we like. I roasted some in the oven last night and served them over yogurt.

In the morning Smith walks three minutes to the bakery, and brings back fresh croissants or a baguette.

I have the feeling that it won’t be possible to travel here again - with global warming, we don’t think it’s ethical for us to fly across the Atlantic - and more than once is more than we can afford to do unless we make it as artists or writers. So this month is my good bye to Europe. But I’m excited that we’ll be settling (at least for a while) in Chicago. It’s always been one of my dreams to live there as well. Kind of like a big version of Cleveland. Familiar Midwestern culture plus a lot of diversity, a literary scene and arts scene. The future is a big unknown but I feel positive about it.