Some people live to visit Jerusalem. Others, the Blarney Stone. Me? The St. James’s Gate Guinness Brewery in Dublin.
Let’s get one thing straight: a “league” is a not a measure of depth. A league is equal to three miles. As Jules Verne would have it, twenty thousand leagues was a measure of horizontal distance under the sea, a journey that would’ve gone on longer had Kirk Douglas not interfered.
“I wish you a good vacation. Take advantage of it, and take good care of yourselves. Most of all be wise about not taking on too many challenges.” Such was the advice from our host Sandrine Gailliot-Sopena in an email sent following our tour of Paris aboard her tiny electric scooters.
I’m afraid we misbehaved a bit last night.
We’re back in Paris, almost a year to the day after the most recent post in this blog. It has been a busy year, but not one that has much of anything with expatting, so the blog has been quiet. With today’s entry, it returns.
I know, I know: we promised boots-on-the-ground election coverage from Paris, yet now that we’ve been here over a week — no news has been forthcoming.
There’s a reason for that. There’s not much to tell you about.
We depart the Gare de Lyon with all the fanfare of a taxi departing a stoplight. A quiet and really fast taxi. But unlike any taxi I’ve ever known, and even though the Gare de Lyon is Paris’s central train station, we’re out of the city and watching grazing sheep on grassy knolls before we’ve even removed our coats.