#58
1.
I arrived in London on the last Eurostar from Paris. The carriage was empty, save for a few businessmen going home. It was late at night and St. Pancras was a ghost town, and London, even for such a huge city, felt completely deserted. As the Café Nero and Le Pain Quotidian closed their doors, hungry I took a taxi to my temporary home. I found the keys in my pocket, unlocked the door, and fell asleep.
2.
Earlier that morning my boss of a small firm in a Provencal French town, or small city, said he needed me to go to London for an undetermined amount of time. Handing me a train ticket, the address of an apartment he owned and a set of keys, I had only a few hours to go home, gather my things (what was the weather like, do I need shorts and running shoes, what about my medicine?) shut up my small house and get on the train to Paris and then on to London.
The town I come from, I’ve always lived in. Except for a few years at university – I’ve always been here. I never had a reason to leave. My parents, now departed, left me a beautiful, small, but warm house complete with a garden and close enough to bike to work and to town but far enough so that it still felt isolated, but in a good way. My job allows me to live well, and the quality of life I lead is, I feel, superb. The food is fresh, good, local, mostly from my garden or the weekly market. The wine from the local valley, equally as superb-cheap and healthy. The sun shines a lot, dogs bark, run around, kids play in the dirt and laugh. Parents are few, but those who are here savor bringing their kids up amongst the berry bushes, cheese, baguette and croissants.
To up and leave I saw at first as an adventure, and later as part of my life that, only now do I understand, or pretend to. On the train I thought of my garden, abandoned for who knows how long. Will the tomatoes all fall off and rot? And the melons? All fallen to the earth, baking in the summer sun.
At times, the thoughts you have as a human, follow a path that is unknown.