And for a while I was in love with a french man. He wasn't my first great love, but he was my first great relationship. Sometimes we would fight about little things, usually because of my deliberate complaining. Oh, how patient he was. But mostly we would talk for hours about living in little houses with white interiors and colourful kitchens. Sometimes we would dream that the little houses would have shutters on the outside. Sometimes they would be painted a light blue. In our minds the houses were always small; too small for how big our dreams were.
I vividly remember a recent trip we took to the south of France, to his hometown. We went for the bull fights, but it turned out to be about so much more.
Landing in the cliched little town, we were greeted by the sounds of festivities and big squares with tables under trees. With our bags and all we plonked down at one of the million little tables. He ordered a juice and I had a black coffee and a cigarette. In the little marching band that passed, there was a man playing a big old white french horn. It was loud, but the wind was cool and calming. Shortly after it was time for the feria.
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I vividly remember a recent trip we took to the south of France, to his hometown. We went for the bull fights, but it turned out to be about so much more.
Landing in the cliched little town, we were greeted by the sounds of festivities and big squares with tables under trees. With our bags and all we plonked down at one of the million little tables. He ordered a juice and I had a black coffee and a cigarette. In the little marching band that passed, there was a man playing a big old white french horn. It was loud, but the wind was cool and calming. Shortly after it was time for the feria.
