Living Here

I have this dream of running away to the South of France. Taking my husband and my puppy, and just going. I used to have a co-worker who was a therapist and I told her this one day. She responded by saying, in a very therapist-y way, "what's in France?" How annoying.

I was thinking about this today as I ran. I hate therapist-y questions. Yet I found myself drawn to answering her question. So hell, I'll play. I'll tell you what's in France.

Bordeaux, for one. Winding dirt roads with open fields and old stone walls. Herb and perennial gardens. Afternoons filled with artisan cheeses and velvety red wine. Exploration and adventure. No strings. No responsibilities. So perhaps I've romanticized a bit.

I have a similar fantasy of St. Maarten. The Dutch side. Just swap in open water, palm trees, and afternoons filled with papaya and sweet rum. No strings. No responsibilities.

And I've got to tell you, romanticized or not, it still sounds like a hell of an argument to me. But every now and then I do this little thing where I crawl out of the depths of my mind and peek out at the living world around me. And I looked up and saw a deep blue sky. Ahead of me was the winding dirt road on which I live. To both sides, open fields with wildflowers and lazily grazing horses. I ran over the old stone bridge and thought to myself, this must be Provence.