I’m doing this. I’m on the plane. I’m running on three hours of (wine-induced) sleep, two Xanax, a quarter of a bottle of water, and three quarters of a cup of coffee from the La Brea Bakery stand next to airport terminal 21. I’m listening to Explosions in the Sky and I’m pretty loopy. Loopy in the good, euphoric way.
Write about it.
And that was the first, last and only thing I actually wrote on my trip. My ten (10) day trip in the south of France and Barcelona. My trip to Yerp.
So, yes. After three years I took myself a vacation. Emma and I (via Los Angeles) were to meet Dad and his girlfriend, Dale (via Richmond, VA)
in the Barcelona airport to then drive immediately to Armissan, a small town in the south of France, to meet Chris and his dad (and a host of other characters which will all be introduced soon enough) in time for a big welcome dinner at the house where we were staying.
The drive was a blur. A champagne-filled blur.
But we made it just in the nick of time. There everyone was, at the dining table of Midge and Jean-Jacques, our gracious hosts. With the addition of us four, I believe we made the group around twelve. Dinner was grand. We had lamb tagine, rice, asparagus, a salad from the garden and fresh strawberries and cheeses for dessert. It was a blur. A champagne, food and winewinewine-filled grand blur.
I believe Emma and I capped off this evening with a bottle or two more bottles of wine while laying in our beds, sighing, giggling, and taking stock of the last few hours, the whirlwind, of our adventure.
I made it. I'm on vacation.