Aujourd’hui Gabriel porte un sweat gris, un short rouge, des chausettes grises, et des chaussures marron.
In other words, we are in France. We are in France! Et tout va bien. Well — presque tout.
I am writing you at 1:10am in the throes of jet lag. Oh, jet lag, you ruiner of afternoon trips to music festivals and evening barbecues. You, who makes us fall asleep at 8pm and wake up again at 11, wondering when — if ever — we will feel happy again.
(My bet is never. But that could be the sleep deprivation talking.)
I really thought I would be okay. I left my house in Seattle at noon on Tuesday, and didn’t sleep again until 8pm France-time on Wednesday. I thought that would cause my next sleep to be some big reset button, where you sleep for 14 hours after being awake for 34, and suddenly you are on France time because you’re definitely not on any other schedule, so why not this one?
But this is not how it works. Apparently.
So I guess all of this is to say: I wish I had more to say about France today, but I just don’t. It is beautiful here — we are in the middle of nowhere, in a big stone building, with friendly neighbors and delicious food, and sheep who wander the grounds and run away when you try to feed them.
And one of these nights I will sleep without tossing and turning, and one of these mornings I will wake up feeling refreshed. I’ll write a post about the friendly neighbor who — when I told him that I had forgotten all the French I learned in school — reminded me that I was speaking to him quite well in French and evidently hadn’t forgotten everything. I’ll write about how I got lost in Paris trying to find the train station, and how I figured it out just in time. I’ll write about those darn sheep that run away when you try to feed them, even when you say “I am trying to feed you!” right to them.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I’ll be up. Trying to sleep.