I love to travel. And I always love to come home.
I love Paris. I love Paris any time of year (although April can be cold and rainy, and gray.) I will return home tomorrow after sixteen days away. During my stay in Paris, a crazy man in a truck killed a lot of innocent people in Nice. The next day, flags flew at half-mast in Paris.
We were at Versailles, celebrating Bastille Day, riding bikes through the grounds and watching fireworks at eleven p.m.
We returned to our hotel room and the sobering news about Nice.
I won’t stay home. If I do, then terrorists (or crazy, truck-driving murderers) win. Although my father and husband worried, we stayed. And here are some of the things we saw:
We enjoyed Paris and went on to enjoy Valencia, eating paella on the beach at Ernest Hemingway’s favorite spot.
I am ready to get home now, to see my family, and my dogs and my garden. My daughter wants to get back to her friends and her new apartment. So we have memories, and photos, and mementos, and best of all, a family and home to return to.