- All the beautiful, warm, delicious, crusty bread that sat waiting for me, mere steps away from our apartment.
- Oh, and the flaky pastries too.
- The view of the mountains from every window in the house.
- Walking everywhere.
- The simple life.
- Hanging all our clothes up to dry. I enjoyed it, even if inconvenient, and it reminded me of my growing up years.
- Our friends, the Stolls and the Barbours.
- The cute old men who rode their bikes to the grocery store every day.
- The woman at the park with her two perfect little kids who always wore something black and was impeccably dressed at all times, who was the only person in that town who looked “French” (i.e. Parisian) and who I stared at every time I saw her and who, even now, is probably relieved that her American stalker is stateside. I do miss staring at her, though.
- Getting together almost every Tuesday night with people we liked and who made us laugh.
- Wednesdays as Saturdays. Everyone needs the middle of the week off.
- The best salads I’ve ever had.
- The way the French prune their trees. I thought it was weird at first, but it makes all the trees looks so neat and groomed. The U.S., by contrast, looks like one big bushy unibrow.
- The cheap, but good wine.
- The many varieties of cheese, but mostly the Chèvre.
- And the crusty, ever-present, always tasty, bread.
(This post is dedicated to Mr. French.)