Oh, yes, I love to read in Paris. In fact, it’s one of the only places I choose to read at all! The cafe’s, L’Arc de Triomphe and Eiffel tower nearby to amuse me. It’s glorious. And don’t forget the soft pillow, digital clock at my side and three sleeping children down the hall.
My husband Mark gave me an I.O.U for my 40th birthday, “Good for One Trip To Paris.He was out of work that December and we were about to descend into our real financial struggles. Well, 40 has come and gone and gone and gone and gone and gone and gone and gone (got it?) and there’s no Air France ticket in sight. We can’t possibly leave the girls with someone/anyone (is Freddie Kruegger available I really want to go to Paris!) and travel across the world. At least I can’t. Too much room for error with the kids and I’d never relax and enjoy myself. I know myself. I could go alone or with a friend if Mark would stay with the girls. But that’s not exactly the romantic trip to Paris I’d imagined. (Although I suppose that depends on who is the “friend” I take!) Epcot France or some hotel in Vegas will have to do.
My bed is my haven. I write there. I read there. I luxuriate in the hour or two I have when the girls go to sleep and the quiet is so thick it’s like a layer of creme fraiche.
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