to danielle : edinburgh
Late mornings of honey and butter drenched sourdough toasts, golden as the warm sun streaming through the kitchen windows.
isle of skye
We leave for the Isle of Skye hours before the sun is awake. Hell, I’m barely awake. I almost immediately curl up in the backseat, nestled among the boys’ coats, a loaf of warm sourdough clutched to my body. Thomas and Quentin rouse me from my slumber often, forcing me into the cold to see the majesty of the Highlands. Thomas has detailed itinerary for our long drive up north and the Highlands have many more surprises in store for us. No time for sleep.
fife and aberdeenshire
I practically ran to the snow when I got off the car at Glenshee. We're climbing up great big hills of hardened snow, falling thigh deep into the giant snow drifts when the surface breaks. I shriek in surprise. Ice cold wet in my socks. From the top, a valley of pure snow spread out below us like clouds. Racing back down the hill to the car, running, slipping, falling, laughing as Quentin catches up to me and kisses me, both of us breathless and freezing.
woodlea stables : real bread
4:30 am. My phone rang and buzzed lightly by my head. Merde. It's early. But I hardly cared. I was already so excited. As I turned off the alarm, I saw Hillary in the darkness, already awake and getting dressed.
to john : in other words
I’m not ready to leave now—et pour être honnête, je ne pense pas que je serai jamais—but I feel like this chapter is drawing to an end. To be revisited later, perhaps, but no longer unfinished.
to matt : la péniche
I don't know if I ever got to tell you that I live on a boat on the Seine?
to tc : autumn reflections
I know that Paris sera toujours Paris. I said this often to reassure myself when I was away, but to come face to face with that reality was jarring in some ways.
to quentin : d’être étranger
Je me mis souvent aux situations où je suis dépaysée, déracinée, complètement bouleversée. Déraciner. C’est un mot qui n’existe pas en anglais dans le même sens et je le trouve tellement triste, mais précis.
to quentin : how it begins
A love letter excerpt.
to tc : nîmes
We've been spending long afternoons in her small apartment just sitting at her table, sipping coffee and talking about what it means to be back here as the warm southern breeze blowing through her open window….We’ve been talking a lot about how difficult it is to be in French.
to tc : meditations on home / the return
And the train pulled in and I was off, automatically going through the motions of transferring to the metro and navigating metro maps in my brain that I didn't realize were still there.
home, home, home, home, my heart murmured gently in time with the deep rattleclackroar of the metro. you're home again.
to john : august impressions
A love letter of sorts, in brief impressions and colors