I have claimed my green chair in front of a fountain in le Jardin des Tuileries. It is nearing the end of the day, sun dropping slowly over my right shoulder, the Arc de triomphe du Carrousel straight ahead, the Louvre an immense presence catching the changing light. Supper is a tart, green apple and dark chocolate covered almonds. The only thing I would change is the water in my thermos for wine.
I decided to treat my mom to a few days in the city before heading over to the Island for some down time. No run ‘o the mill box inside a box was going to do for our city escapade. I was determined to find a luxurious-within-financial-reason diamond among the monotonous beige masquerading as homes away from home for our time in Vancouver.
Cycling in Amsterdam is exhilarating. I felt fully alive, perched sans helmet atop my borrowed 3 speed, rickety cruiser, the kind you backpedal to break, skirt flapping in the wind, senses open way wide while trying to keep up with a seasoned local.
The the calm before the storm. Those seven weeks with family and friends in Vancouver and on Vancouver Island, an interlude between the life I led in New Zealand and the life I will tread on the Eurasian continent over the next year.
A friend of mine gave me a gift certificate for a session with Margaret Hema a year ago. I had heard of her before, stumbled across her website, hummed and hahhed, typed out an email to book an appointment, but never followed through.
