A few days ago, I was in New York.
I was having dinner with my daughter, walking crowded streets, dodging traffic, and moving through a city that never seems entirely convinced it should slow down.
This week, I’m back in the Dordogne, France.
The loudest thing I’ve heard all morning is a dove.
The transition is always a little strange.
One minute I’m standing on a crowded sidewalk in Manhattan. The next I’m standing in my garden looking at a stone wall that’s older than the United States.
The distance between those two lives is about 5,000 miles.
Some days it feels much shorter.
Some days it feels much longer.
Every time I visit America and return to France, I notice things differently.
People often ask me what it’s really like living here.
The funny answer is that it depends entirely on whether you’re looking at the postcard or the reality.
The postcard version is true, of course.
France is beautiful.
The villages are beautiful.
The markets are beautiful.
The food is beautiful.
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