I’ve been slow to process all the information in my new home city–Amsterdam.  Sure there are tons of things to write about, but I’ve had trouble getting my thoughts organized into a coherent two-minute blog post. I decided it was time to get over my general laziness and take a vacation in the south of France at Opa and Oma’s.

And if you don’t believe that a trip to southern France combats laziness, try lugging a recalcitrant two year-old, a squeaky piece of shit stroller and shoulder bag with razor-sharp straps through two European airports where stairs are the new elevators. Alone.

Don’t cry for me though–Amsterdam.

So far it has been worth it. Last night was moules-frites-merguez night in the neighboring town of Cotignac. Feisty volunteers work as chefs and off-the-cuff comedians, serving up a steaming plates of moules and peppery commentary. Since the region produces tons of good rosé, well, it’s cheaper than water.

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And today I leisurely wandered around a local brocant, fantasizing over everything orange. Was I subconsciously thinking of you, Amsterdam?

Thankfully, I learned my lesson traveling here and wouldn’t dare add any weight to my load. I’m sure Edgard will also be happy that these chairs will not grace our living room.

And Prose will have no idea that I passed on the coolest toy ever.

I’ve realized that coming to France is like visiting an old friend. We’ve been out of contact for a while, but I get “it” with France, even when she acts a little weird.  Amsterdam still leaves me tongue-tied, wondering what “it” is, what she will do next.

I wonder, Amsterdam, we will one day look back at my first months and laugh? Will I someday miss you while on vacation?

Until then, Amsterdam, I’ll send you postcards from Provence, letting you know that the weather is good.