My favorite thing about horizons is they split the world into two, and I am not in either half.
Everywhere we walk, there is a horizon. Even in the barn door. We walked to the edge of the sea. There were bathers getting out of the water. Maybe 12 of them. This is what it sounded like. I walk through the little roads in the fields, little Renaults pass within a foot of my life without slowing down. Today’s french lesson included I’m sorry, which is désolé.
B and I in a little cottage outside of Fécamp, Normandy, that used to be the town mill, then a little school house. We are surrounded by herds of black only sheep–where the white sheep are the black sheep–and a donkey we named Xote (get it?). A butcher gifted us a gelatinous beef sandwich because our rudimentary french amused him. We accidentally ordered coffee with a mountain of whipped cream. Oysters and wine in town with Jacques Rebotier. The home of Guy de Maupassant. The place where Benedictine liqueuer is made. A glass of brute cider by the fire.