After a fitful night tossing and turning and twisting, as much as one can do while strapped into an 18 inch wide space hurling across the Atlantic Ocean in a metal cylinder, I am in France. My luggage is not.Jerome picked me up at the airport and we took the hour and a half drive through the meandering towns and countryside southeast of Paris to Fontaine-Fourches. My luggage should follow, says AirFrance. I was too groggy to be snapping pictures of the swaths of red poppy fields.The sky was gray, the ground saturated from earlier rains. The gardens are lush.
The table was set for lunch, Kippy made sure there was an unusually impressive assortment of cheeses (she reads my blog). And then I stumbled upstairs to bed for a recuperative nap.