Tis after my farewell dinner with M, and the main room has been swept and adjusted for the arrival of Gil so that he and M can go over the upcoming tapings for the weekend TV show. Dafna has turned on the red hanging lamp, and lit candles all over the bureau. I snuggle in the corner with lots of pillows, and Fluffy the Laptop.
I flatly refuse to acknowledge that I leave tomorrow, and have resolutely refused to pack. Not that I have much to pack… I bought a tee shirt at Paul’s Café, and that’s it. What kind of tourist goes home without an armload of souvenirs? Maybe I’m not a tourist. If not, what am I then? “Traveller” sounds good, but how to define? Must contemplate this while I’m packing finishing my murder mystery.
white pebble 