Several months ago my darling daughter suggested we hop the pond and visit the Grand Continent once again.
I had three thoughts that took three seconds to gel a response: life is not marching forth in reverse (check), stop ‘thinking’ and act (check), and you can’t keep an American down. Damn global terrorism. (Check and double damn check)
The perfect trifecta of luggage packing, melting credit cards and a husband that suggested it might be prudent to wait until… until… what I asked?
The world became a nicer place?
Disenfranchised peach-fuzzed zealots with promises of 72 virgins got a grip?
The EU got it’s shit together?
No one has patience that long
So, blahblahblah, love you dearly, don’t forget to feed the cats, see ya in 29 days, and the nagging question of finding the perfect red lipstick that telegraphed a certain American confidence without seeming too showy, were spoken.
I think I hit it out of the ballpark with the lipstick btw, because… priorities.
Anyways, I have returned and after a somewhat lengthy conference with U.K. Independence Party leader Nigel Farge (and the always amusing Boris Johnson pouring drinks) I believe, in spite of international market fluctuations, and a subdued giddiness about the wetter than normal weather conditions that may have a cherry effect on next year’s Cabernets, the Grand Continent is still open for business, still putting on the Ritz, and still loving Americans. Or me. Probably both. Or maybe it’s just me?… nah… then again…
- I’d like to offer a very heartfelt applaud to our tour company, Collette, and our marvelous guide Cristina Wilkerson and driver Brian. Bravo! I’d go with you two anywhere. Well, almost. Certainly a pub. Probably two. And shopping… don’t get me started…