I would say Paris because that’s the only place in France I was meant to go to. But I missed my plane and ended up on one to Lyon and on a train to Paris.
I met a wonderful, eccentric couple my parent’s age on the plane to Lyon. He reminded me of Jacques Tati. They offered me a ride to the train station and gave me a tour of the city on the way.
Everyone in France is amazingly friendly and my faith in humanity is restored.
In Paris I am sick with the flu. I’m locked up in a beautiful apartment in Montmartre watching Black Books and blowing into tissues. I only came here for the crazy horse and Monet’s garden and I am well enough to do both, but I am too sick to explore Le Marais and Rue Cler again. Or enjoy the sun. But I do ride a bike through the countryside and have to take refuge in a lovely inn for lunch when the courtyard gets flooded with a passing storm. Dianne and I ride back in yellow rain ponchos and laugh so much we have to stop. There are wildflowers and horses and grug plants. I look forward to seeing Poppit on Tuesday and I breathe through any tension in Paris that will soon leave.
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