The cigales are making their comforting little screech, and the semi-mistral is shaking the leaves. and soon I will go down the stone steps to put lunch on the other door-table downstairs by the ivied wall. Yes, one could write or something, but since the Tour de France is about to pass by down at the bottom of the long hill, the excuse is to do nothing. I like nothing, it turns out.
Part of the paradise feelin is you don't have to do anything to feel you deserve being here: you are just here. Expanding your senses over a lingering coffee in the early morning or some salad with olive oil (unbelievable, from Malemort up the hill) and white peaches and local wine. I never imagined this when I was little and less little, and if I ever have to give it up, I won't be forgetting it.