anniversary
Celebrated 4 years in England this past weekend in the place where it all started, Ramsgate.
The sea air is a rush to the senses and to the memory of pulling in to 28, jetlagged, in a surreal state. The oddly small houses, the people walking, the giant seagulls that still take me by surprise.
It's the way that Aura rosemary mint shampoo always brings me back to the summer in LaPorte, when I was 9. The same crisp sea air, the seagulls replaced with giant blue crabs.
As the summer takes its final bow, I can't help but wonder where I'd be if I'd never ventured to the mighty UK. In LaPorte I dreamed of living in the mansions that lined the cliffs over the sea. I would inch across the sea wall, one slip from death, just to get a glimpse - the eight foot windows, the perfectly manicured garden, the weeping chandeliers, the silver that glistened in the sunshine. I imagined myself wearing pearls, hovering over the tea service, offering biscotti on lace doilies to my guests, an aria playing in the background. Then I'd be spotted, spying in on their perfection and I'd drag myself back to our hollow white two story with its paint peeling back with disgust of the old wood.
Those sleepy seaside days with the magic of rosemary mint to keep me awake. Pondering whether or not LaPorte was a door and I was standing on the wrong side.
I still splash out the eight quid at Sally's for a trip back to the seaside. The same reason, I suppose, that I return to Ramsgate on the 18th of August every year. To bring me back to an innocence, when the world was new and full of magic.
The sea air is a rush to the senses and to the memory of pulling in to 28, jetlagged, in a surreal state. The oddly small houses, the people walking, the giant seagulls that still take me by surprise.
It's the way that Aura rosemary mint shampoo always brings me back to the summer in LaPorte, when I was 9. The same crisp sea air, the seagulls replaced with giant blue crabs.
As the summer takes its final bow, I can't help but wonder where I'd be if I'd never ventured to the mighty UK. In LaPorte I dreamed of living in the mansions that lined the cliffs over the sea. I would inch across the sea wall, one slip from death, just to get a glimpse - the eight foot windows, the perfectly manicured garden, the weeping chandeliers, the silver that glistened in the sunshine. I imagined myself wearing pearls, hovering over the tea service, offering biscotti on lace doilies to my guests, an aria playing in the background. Then I'd be spotted, spying in on their perfection and I'd drag myself back to our hollow white two story with its paint peeling back with disgust of the old wood.
Those sleepy seaside days with the magic of rosemary mint to keep me awake. Pondering whether or not LaPorte was a door and I was standing on the wrong side.
I still splash out the eight quid at Sally's for a trip back to the seaside. The same reason, I suppose, that I return to Ramsgate on the 18th of August every year. To bring me back to an innocence, when the world was new and full of magic.