The bags are once again out of the closet and prepared for packing. This sends Rufus into orbit as he’s always nervous that he won’t get to come along on the holiday. Silly dog. The only time we don’t bring him is when some government says we can’t, such as Ireland who requires a six month wait after the rabies test is done.
Anyhoo, Rufus and we are going to Corsica for a week! First we’ll drive to Aix-en-Provence and toodle around there until we have to drive to Toulon where we’ll catch the night ferry to Corsica. As per usual, we’re venturing out without much of a plan and no guidebook. We’ll hit the tourist office on the Sunday we arrive, and then decide. Actually we’ll dicker back and forth and the plan will shift daily and will reflect numerous compromises and concessions. But we’ll each get our way some of the time, and we’ll make sure that the other realizes the full extent of the sacrifices being made so that one of us is happy. The dog — thumping his tail throughout it all because he’s just so happy (and relieved) to be included — will remind us to not be petty little piss pots, to quit counting who got what, and to genuinely enjoy ourselves. Thank God, for dogs.
We experienced another sonic boom today, our second. Good golly those things are ferocious. There’s absolutely no way to anticipate them. None. Afterwards, the valley echoed with howling dogs. We gathered our wits and stuffed our hearts back into our chest cavities. Still, the sky seemed bigger and more beautiful after a boom, as if the sound that defies description made it multiply.
Speaking of skies, we’ve seen more than our fair share of shooting stars this summer. So many that I’ve lost track of what I’ve wished on the lot of them. If I head towards the darker parts of the village on a clear night, the sky is puddled with stars and it’s amazing to stand beneath them. In a weird way these experiences feel possible only because of where we are – in the sticks of southwest France, in a sleepy village, on the far edge of a valley. Maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe not.
Last week we received four stairs of wood, which is hopefully enough to see us through the winter. Monsieur M delivered the wood in two allotments, each time calling at the last minute to say he was waiting for us, that his previous delivery had been canceled or hadn’t taken as long as he thought it would, yadda yadda. No matter. We were very, very glad to see the wood guy.
Four stairs of wood is a lotta wood. With each delivery, Monsieur M backed his truck up Rue du Barry and dumped the wood into the middle of the road in front of our cave. Then he collected his money (cash only) and drove off. He wasn’t being rude or careless. It’s just that he only does wood deliveries. He does not do wood stacking. So, Tim and I had to haul ass to move the wood from the road to the cave before a car came along. Wouldn’t you know that a car always came along! Of course. Any other day there would be no cars whatsoever. On wood delivery day, there were cars with people impatient to be on their way, or people who needed to get to the airport. The airport people, though, I give them credit. They at least were pragmatic about the situation and helped us move the wood to the side of the road so that they could get past.
At any rate, on the eve of yet another journey, I’m trying my hand at being more intentional, at being pleased as punch about the sonic booms, the shooting stars and the stairs of wood, all of which have managed to make the everyday less ordinary.
