Thursday Night Randomness...
Europe haunts me these days. I eat, drink, breathe, sleep, talk Europe. Oh, the withdrawals. And the dreams, the tauntingly lucid dreams where I am somehow, somewhere in the heart of Europe and swirlingswirlingswirling like a German marionette between a Swiss chalet here and an Italian vineyard there and the Tyrolean Alps and the Parisian cafés and oh, did I say withdrawals?!
The most recent dream was so vivid it made me ache: I was by the ocean. I shielded my eyes with the back of my hand when the sun hit the water; I couldn't continue looking because it reflected so brightly, like light on crumpled foil and it hurt my eyes. I looked around and then down to the pebbled shore... the gulls were squawking methodically, and the chalky white cliffs loomed in the distance. Dover! A paper boat bobbed lackadaisically in the turquoise water and I laughed and followed it, and with the sudden shift that can only happen in dreams, I was on the beaches of Normandy.
It was so good to be in Europe that I was actually upset when I woke up and realized the alluring sands of French beaches had transformed into my half-crumpled sheets.
And today...
Today I sent her an SMS on being asked for recommendations as she makes her way to a five-day getaway to the UK, and insisted she visits my beloved Cotswolds. As if to assert my suggestion, I even threw in four exclamation marks. FOUR, people. That's rare from me. But, Cotswolds is worthy of any overuse of exclamatory remarks, what with its impossibly adorable villages and thatched cottages and the gentle landscape that oozes so much English charm that you just want to dip your scone in it and have it with a cup of Earl Grey tea.
Finis.
The most recent dream was so vivid it made me ache: I was by the ocean. I shielded my eyes with the back of my hand when the sun hit the water; I couldn't continue looking because it reflected so brightly, like light on crumpled foil and it hurt my eyes. I looked around and then down to the pebbled shore... the gulls were squawking methodically, and the chalky white cliffs loomed in the distance. Dover! A paper boat bobbed lackadaisically in the turquoise water and I laughed and followed it, and with the sudden shift that can only happen in dreams, I was on the beaches of Normandy.
It was so good to be in Europe that I was actually upset when I woke up and realized the alluring sands of French beaches had transformed into my half-crumpled sheets.
And today...
Today I sent her an SMS on being asked for recommendations as she makes her way to a five-day getaway to the UK, and insisted she visits my beloved Cotswolds. As if to assert my suggestion, I even threw in four exclamation marks. FOUR, people. That's rare from me. But, Cotswolds is worthy of any overuse of exclamatory remarks, what with its impossibly adorable villages and thatched cottages and the gentle landscape that oozes so much English charm that you just want to dip your scone in it and have it with a cup of Earl Grey tea.
Finis.