April 6, 2016 – Reykjavik

Dear world,

We left Paris this morning and our cramped little apartment there already seems like something out of another lifetime.

After I last wrote we headed out to meet with Madi and her partner for an evening drink in the 6th arrondissement. We had planned to split a couple large hot chocolates at a swanky location where Hemmingway used to spend time, but when the manager turned his nose up and insisted it was a one-drink-per-person establishment we opted to move onto a small bar down the street and drink wine instead.

We had a lovely evening chatting about life and travel and even journalism, until Madi had to head to bed before her morning class. Dario and I walked back to our side of the Seine, stopping for a couple Nutella and banana crepes at a nearby stand.

In sharp contrast to the snooty manager at the earlier café, the friendly crepe-maker here chatted us up, asking where we were from and teaming up with Dario to laugh at my poor attempts at French. He invited me behind the counter and let me try my hand at flipping a crepe, and then insisted Dario join me back there for a photo.


We left him a tip and walked away laughing and cradling our warm crepes in our hands, happy for the reminder that most people we’ve met on this trip have been warm and kind and welcoming.

On our last day in Paris we took the metro to the Père Lachaise cemetery, where Oscar Wilde is buried alongside a number of other famous names, including Jim Morrison and Eugene Delacroix.

It was surprisingly beautiful there. After our initial days of rain, spring seemed to have truly arrived in Paris by our final day there, and the sun was warm and gentle.

We strolled along cobblestone streets through a maze of crumbling headstones and sepulchres. Birds sang. Buds hung from the trees, looking ready to flower or burst into leaves at any moment. It was all much more picturesque than it was morbid.

We found Oscar Wilde’s tomb, which was once decorated in red-lipstick prints from his many admirers, but is now surrounded by plexi glass and a notice from the City of Paris asking visitors not to mark or damage the tomb.

From the cemetery we took the metro back to Montmatre for another walk around one of our favourite neighbourhoods in the city. We were tired when we first visited the area, but this time we took our time seeking out scenes to photograph and ducking into little shops.

We stumbled across the Moulin Rouge in Pigalle, then doubled back and allowed ourselves to be lured into a boulangerie with a sign on the window claiming it had won an award for baking Paris’ best baguette in 2016.

We stood on a street corner and each ate half a baguette topped with cheese and tomato and herbs before continuing our wandering.

Eventually we headed back to the area around the Assemblée Nationale. From there we walked along the river, taking more photos and browsing the outdoor stalls selling a combination of vintage books, prints, and cheesy souvenirs.

We took a short rest at the apartment before gathering the strength and appetite to head back out to L’Oie qui Fume, the little restaurant Mum and Dad had recommended.

On our way we stopped into Shakespeare and Company, a famous English language bookshop near the river. Realizing we hadn’t gotten ourselves any Paris souvenirs, we decided to pick up one of the bookshop’s mystery boxes.

For a 7 euro donation to charity, the store offers sealed boxes containing one book, a postcard and a bookmark. We purchased one and then sat on a bench to open it up and pour over the aged red volume inside: Mill on the Floss by George Eliot.

From there, we walked to the restaurant feeling a little giddy over our spontaneous purchase, the romantic Seine and the perfect golden-hour lighting. I grabbed Dario’s hand and said “Something about this evening feels kind of…magical.”

At the restaurant I enjoyed one last bowl of French onion soup, a decadent baked tartiflette — basically potatoes, cream sauce, onion and bacon — and chocolate mousse for dessert. And a one more glass of red wine.

We took the long way back, overshooting our apartment and doubling back by the river. Then it was upstairs to pack and clean up the apartment, feeling a little nostalgic about it all.

This morning we woke up at about 9 a.m. and went out in search of breakfast before heading to the airport. We grabbed quiche and a pain au chocolat and sat out in the sun to eat our final Paris meal.

Then it was back to the apartment and underground to catch a train out to the airport.

After about a three-hour flight, we landed in Iceland.

We picked up our bags and walked out into the fresh, crisp air. When we passed through here a week and a half ago there was snow on the tarmac, but by today the ground was clear and the temperature about 7 degrees Celsius.

It was about an hour-long shuttle bus ride to get from the airport to Reykjavik, and we pressed our noses to the windows the entire way, taking in the lava fields dotted with ash-green moss clinging to black volcanic rock, the grey North Atlantic and the glacier-topped mountains.

By the time we pulled into the bus terminal in the city, Dario had figured out that it would only be a two kilometre walk to get to our Airbnb, so we headed out into the drizzle in search of our accommodations.

A few impossible-to-pronounce Icelandic streets later, we turned up a side street and I patted Dario’s arm and said “Oh, look how adorable that little green house with the white fence is!” And then, to my delight, he said “I think this is it!”


We were told that our keys would be waiting in a green mailbox, but since we didn’t see one of those, Dario tried the door. It was unlocked — a sure sign of just how friendly and trusting Icelanders are. He backed out when he realized he’d walked into somebody’s kitchen, but we soon located the mailbox around the back of the house and easily entered our charming Reykjavik apartment.

We are so in love with this little city and our temporary home here. Despite being partially underground, our apartment is big and bright with white walls and simple, tasteful furniture. Our host, Bjorn, is a local radio journalist who lives with his family upstairs. The ocean is half a block away and downtown is only a ten minute walk.

We went into the city briefly to find an ATM and wonder at the stunning views from the old harbour, the adorable coloured homes and winding cobblestone roads, and to gasp in slight dismay at just how much everything costs. Even simple restaurants here seem to charge the equivalent of at least $30 for a meal here, and we saw a number advertising what worked out to be $80 specials.

Luckily there is a grocery store nearby and our kitchen here is well equipped, so we picked up some supplies and headed back for a cozy night in. Dario cooked up some pasta and we split a couple of beers and talked about how much we love this place already.


It is just so different from Paris in every way – climate, culture, architecture, landscape, language and people, and I feel so lucky to be able to experience both amazing places, and to have Dario here with me.

He is fast asleep beside me though and I think it’s just about time for me to follow suit.

Good night,



April 4, 2016 – Paris

Dear world,

It is our second-to-last evening in this city. Only one full day left here and we are already halfway through our trip… how time flies!

We spent the day a little outside of the core of the city yesterday, wandering the opulent rooms and extensive gardens of Versailles.

We started the morning by picking up pastries and freshly squeezed orange juice for breakfast and purchasing a picnic-feast on our way to the train station, then boarded a regional train that took us to the suburb where Versailles is located.

Today, the lavish palace where multiple generations of France’s royal family once hosted court stands as a stunning reminder of just how extravagant the monarchy was.

We picked up little handheld speakers and took an audio tour around the king’s chambers, through countless rooms named after Roman gods, every inch of every surface embellished with gold highlights and crown moulding and silk embroidery, every ceiling a masterpiece painting.

We strolled through the famous Hall of Mirrors, with its wall of glass reflecting the rows of chandeliers and windows overlooking the gardens, and peered under the brocade canopy suspended over the king’s bed, where he would perform ceremonies every morning and night in front of an intimate audience of courtiers.IMG_2147

Across the way, we visited a remodelled area of the palace adorned with paintings of revolutionary leaders and a grand hall flanked by murals of French military victories. We paused in front of the painting of Jeanne d’Arc and then ducked downstairs to tour the “mesdames” rooms which once housed the unmarried daughters and sisters of the king.

After soaking in the history and taking a moment to imagine each room at the height of its indulgent glory, we went outside and into the gardens.

We strolled the central promenade, past gilt fountains and up to the “grand canal,” where Sunday picnickers were happily rowing themselves around in rented boats. Then we made a space for ourselves on a bench near the Apollo fountain and unpacked our backpack-full of delicacies: baguettes, cheese, tomatoes, salami, pickled artichoke hearts and a small jar of fish roe, two half-bottles of wine and a side of chips, just for good measure.

By this time the sun had emerged and we soaked in the daylight with a hunger only possible after having spent a painful winter in eastern Canada.

At 3:30 p.m. the fountains turned on and we watched Apollo spout water out of his conch shell, then we went for a little stroll through one of the hedge mazes off to the side of the fountains. We weaved through the bushes, stumbling upon dancing music coming from hidden speakers, pale statues, and trees boasting newly-blossomed spring flowers.

After a few hours in the garden it was time to call it a day and we made our way back to the train. I was hit with instant exhaustion when I sat down (a feeling I realize now was probably the result of stupidly drinking half a bottle of wine while still on painkillers for my sore throat). I passed out for the entire journey back into the centre of the city, and fell into to bed as soon as we got back to the apartment.

Four hours later, I woke in a bit of a haze to a worried Dario hovering over me, checking to make sure I was okay.

I sat up and sipped some water and determined that I was, indeed, okay. And hating to waste another minute inside when we could be out there, we pulled on our jackets and set off into the evening.

We wandered through the 5th arrondissement up to a little student hangout we noticed a couple nights ago called Au P’tit Grec. A line stretched down the cobblestone street outside the open-air eatery, and satisfied customers stumbled away from the stand with gigantic wraps as big as my head clutched in their hands.

After a short wait we placed our own orders for two galettes, stuffed with country ham, gooey cheese, potato, lettuce, and tomato. Dario declared it “one of the best things” he’d ever eaten, and he happily polished off my leftovers when I admitted defeat three quarters of the way through the meal.

By the time we polished our dinner off with a Nutella and banana crepe, it was nearly midnight and we made our way back to the apartment by moonlight.

We slept in this morning. Now that we’re through with our four-day museum pass there’s some more flexibility for wandering and dozing and less need to rush from one tourist hotspot to the next.

By the time we set out for a coffee and croissant and a visit to the doctors’ (I’m still sick) it was almost 11 a.m., but we’d no sooner validated our metro tickets than we realized I was sans ID. So, both feeling a little grumpy, we turned around and walked back to the apartment and up the seven flights of stairs to grab my health card and try again.

It was past noon by the time we finally found the doctors’ office and got in line to see the receptionist and I was feeling anxious at the idea of wasting an entire day inside a clinic. But we were both pleasantly surprised by the efficiency of the French healthcare system.

Within 45 minutes we were in and out, a prescription in hand. The doctor took one quick glance at my throat before decisively saying “Ah, oui, oui, oui” and diagnosing me with what Dario translated to “a white infection.” And it only cost me 23 Euros (back when I only had B.C. healthcare, I used to get charged $70 to visit an Ontario clinic)!

We were finished the whole doctors’ business by 1:30 p.m. and feeling both accomplished and hungry, so we found a little bakery and wolfed down some mediocre ham and cheese sandwiches.

Then we set out to walk to Montmartre to see the café where they filmed Amélie and the Sacré-Coeur. The walk was only supposed to be about two kilometres, but as we wandered further and further away from charming cafés and into a neighbourhood of newer, dirtier apartments, laundromats and cheaply-made clothing stores, we began to have our misgivings.

Eventually we decided to check a map in a metro station, and found that we’d far overshot our destination. So we hopped on a smelly train and transited our way to Pigalle.

Once there, we hurried past the rows of sex shops and strip joints, turned up a side street, and thanks to Dario’s navigation, found ourselves outside le Café des Deux Moulins, or as we called it “The Amélie café!”

We stopped in for café crèmes and cardamom-spiced crème brulée (me) and chocolate mousse cake (Dario). The server seated us at a table in the very spot where, in the movie, Amélie hovers over the shoulder of her lover, too terrified to reveal her identity.

After our afternoon dessert we wandered the delightful streets of Montmartre and then up the steps to the beautiful Sacré-Coeur, where we enjoyed the view and circled the church before descending and hopping on a metro back to our neighbourhood.

Now we are relaxing in our little apartment before heading out to meet my friend Madi at what says is a famous café once frequented by Hemingway. We are full from a big dinner of pasta and bread and wine and cheese and feeling relaxed and content in that deep-in-your-bones-happiness way.

I am a little sad that we have only one day left here, but Dario just asked me what I’d like to do with our spare day in Reykjavik and floated a list of equally-thrilling sounding ideas and it made me excited for the adventures still to come.

Lots of love,


April 2, 2016 – Paris

Dear world,

After a few days of furious touring we took it a little easier today.

I am fighting a nasty throat infection (“Mal à la gorge!” We told the pharmacist this morning) so I am on a schedule of anti-septics and anti-inflammatories in the hopes that it’ll clear itself up quickly.

In the meantime, Dario generously let me sleep about 12 hours last night and we got off to a lazy start this morning.

We had delicious pho in a simple little Vietnamese restaurant around Saint-Germain last night, then went for a bit of a stroll around the Pantheon and along Rue Mouffetard, in search of crepes with Nutella and banana for dessert.


I wasn’t feeling great though so we headed back at a reasonable hour and I hit the sack.

This morning we started the day picking up some medicine, then we walked all the way from our place to the Eiffel Tower – about a an hour’s walk.

On the way we ducked into a boulangerie for a pain au chocolate for breakfast and a croissant (for me) and a demi baguette (for Dario) to hold onto for lunch. We also slipped into a grocery store and picked up smoked ham, Camembert, pickled eggplant and, what has strangely been our favourite French delicacy: fresh cherry tomatoes. And wine.

From there, we walked to the Champs de Mars and set ourselves on a bench for a little picnic. But just as the pigeons began to circle us, we realized we’d forgotten a bottle opener! So we packed up again and walked to a grocery store to buy a cheap corkscrew, then headed to a different bench and had the most lovely little picnic, people watching and enjoying the view.


By the end of our meal we were both feeling a little chilled, so we snapped some photos and made the walk back to the apartment.

Feeling drained and still a little under the weather, I took a long three-hour nap, and then a hot shower. Now we are just lazing around. It’s dark and rainy out but we may still venture into the night for one more outing today.

Tomorrow, we plan to wake up early and visit Versailles! (Though our alternate plan is to wake up early and visit the doctor, then Versailles.)

And though we are both feeling a little lousy, nothing can really detract from how amazing this city is. We are both having such a beautiful time — sore throats and all.

We wish we never had to leave!


April 1, 2016 – Paris

Dear world,

We are in our apartment taking a short breather before plunging back into the Paris streets.

It’s been a busy couple of days.

We activated our museum passes yesterday and headed west a couple of blocks to the entrance of the Louvre. It was pouring rain and we sloshed through puddles to get to the queue near the entrance, only to find a sign with a message saying the museum staff was on strike and that the museum would be opening an hour and a half later than usual.

We walked off to find a coffee, arm in arm as we tried to squeeze under the small umbrella I’d (luckily) packed in my bag.

We ended up at a funny little café, sort of a dive-bar feel with red pleather booths and the name scrawled in neon lettering above the metallic bar. Construction workers leaned against the counter and I left Dario to order for us while I went to huddle behind a table and people watch.

Two coffees later, the bartender wished us “bon courage avec la pluie” and we ventured out onto the street again.

By the time we made it back to the museum a long line of umbrella-wielding tourists had formed in front of the iconic glass pyramids. We joined the throngs and jostled for enough space to accommodate both us and our umbrella.

About 45 minutes later, we finally made it inside. I pulled up my soggy socks, we grabbed an English map and we headed into the galleries.

I went to the Louvre on my first trip to Paris, almost 10 years ago, but I’d forgotten just how enormous and daunting the building is.

Overwhelmed by the number of rooms and styles and forms of art, we decided to start with a hunt for the Mona Lisa, so that we could be sure we didn’t miss it in the maze of other distractions.

We walked through a long hall of Italian art, full of expressive characters with faces frozen at the height of drama in the middle of some Biblical epic or another, then veered into the crowded room where the Mona Lisa stood, dwarfed by the protective stone around her and the bullet proof glass across her face.

Once we’d successfully seen the Mona Lisa, we felt free to wander with a little less direction. We surveyed the map and picked a number of destinations, but invariably became lost in the in-between rooms, taking side trips to admire sculptures while en route to rooms full of paintings or artifacts.

My favourite part of the whole scattered tour was a statue of three women, leaning on each other and posing with such unabashed confidence that they earned the hashtag #girlpower when I shared the photo on Instagram.


Dario’s favourite part was seeing Delacroix’s revolutionary painting of liberty leading the people.


After a few hours of battling crowds we decided to call it a morning and made our way out of the building and back into the open air. We picked up a few supplies at a grocery store on the way back to the apartment, then came here to cook pesto pasta with fresh, ripe cherry tomatoes and, of course, a side of cheese.

We napped off our meal and set out again in the late afternoon to the Ile de la Cité, where we stopped into the Conciergerie and Notre Dame.

There was a powerful photography exhibit on display in the main hall of the Conciergerie, and we spent some time wandering among the gigantic black and white portraits stationed around Europe’s oldest surviving medieval hall.


Once home to early French royalty, the Conciergerie took on a darker role later in the city’s history, when it served as a prison. The peak of prosecution came during the revolution, when Dario read that thousands of prisoners were housed there before being sentenced to the guillotine.

Marie Antoinette spent two months imprisoned there and Robespierre spent some of his final hours in the stone building, before being swiftly condemned to death. As one of the informational signs on the wall said, the only evidence necessary to sentence him was his identity.

After the Conciegerie we walked the short distance to Notre Dame and wandered through the cathedral’s echoing interior. After admiring the stained glass and arched roofs and observing the whispered prayer around us, we both agreed: it’s hard not to be moved by a place like that.

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From there we walked to the left bank and for a short, rainy stroll before heading back to the apartment for dinner: baguette sandwiches with fresh tomato, salami, Camembert and pickled artichoke hearts. And wine, of course.

We were both feeling tired after such a busy day, but we downed a couple glasses of pinot noir and rallied the energy to head back into the night and onto the metro.

We took line 11 north, out of the tourist-filled 1er arrondissement where we are staying and up a little further north to a student-filled bar called La Cantine Fabien, where we met up with my friend Madi, who is currently living and studying here, and a group of other international students.

We grabbed five-euro pints of Stella, watching as, just beyond the crowded bar, a group of horn players danced on tables above an enthusiastic crowd. In the centre of it all, a female saxophone player doubled over, throwing her entire body into the music.

Upstairs, we gathered at a table with Madi and her friends and shouted over the music, trading stories of school and travel and life back home in Canada.

We walked to the station in time to catch the last metro train out, and Dario was properly scandalized when a girl from California boldly called the eight-degree Celsius weather “too cold.”

Then it was back to the apartment to fall into bed and sleep a few hours.

We started our day walking along the Seine to the D’Orsay, where we put on our headphones and let the Rick Steves take us on a free audio tour around the incredible gallery (cheesy lines and corny clichés included!).

The tour opened in the neoclassical section, with pastel-coloured paintings of Venus reclined seductively on a bed of sea foam, her curves soft under the rosy light.

From there we walked to a room housing Manet’s Olympia, a much bolder depiction of a reclining naked woman, and an important break with what the Paris art community was used to at the time.

We walked upstairs to the impressionist section, pausing a moment to survey the full length of the gallery, which was once a grand train station. Then it was through a set of doors and, suddenly, we were surrounded by blurred brush strokes and a wealth of beautiful outdoor scenes.

We keep talking about how amazing it is that all this priceless (and famous) art can exist in one space. At home, just one piece by Degas or Monet would be enough for the museum to begin boasting, but here there are dozens lined up beside works by Renoir and Cezanne and Pissaro. Dario says his favourite part was wandering the dreamy impressionist halls.

We wandered through the impressionist section and then into the post-impressionist works, which were much more vivid and less hazy.

This section featured a room full of van Gogh paintings, including Starry Night and his famous self portrait, and a small painting of a church and a woman out front, which may have been my favourite piece in the gallery.


There was also a room devoted to van Gogh’s one-time room mate, Gauguin, who shared a flat with van Gogh in the South of France before tensions between the artists became too much to handle and van Gogh threatened Gauguin with a knife. Gauguin packed up and left and van Gogh descended into madness, lopping off a piece of his own ear and entering an asylum before, eventually, shooting himself in the chest.

Meanwhile, Gauguin ended up seeking refuge in the sunny Pacific islands, where he painted bold, flat, exotic paintings of lush fruit and trees and local girls with their dark breasts dangling. We saw a number of those at the D’Orsay too, though I can’t say I care for them too much.

After that we briefly wandered the Art Nouveau section of the museum, which was mostly furniture, and then we were on our way.

We planned to walk back to the apartment for lunch but the sun made an appearance and, after such a rainy day yesterday, we couldn’t help but be lured onto a little patio in the 5th arrondissement, where we went ahead and ordered all the clichés: escargots and French onion soup for our appetizers, mussels and salmon pasta for the mains, and a crepe and crème brûlée for dessert. And a little jug of white wine.

From there, we planned to go home for a rest, but the sun on the Seine was far too beautiful, so we walked to the Ile de la Cité and down to the path along the water, then up to the Notre Dame where we waited in line for about an hour before ascending the 421 steps to the top of the towers.


Up top, even the gargoyles grinned at the spring weather and we snapped a bunch of photos of the view and the crowds milling below. We climbed into the bellfry to look at the gigantic bells that we can hear chiming each hour from our apartment, and I managed to spin myself into quite the dizzy spell as we walked the winding steps back down to ground level.

On our way back to the apartment we took a quick glance in the church’s crypts, where the remains of a Roman-era wall still remain, then we came back here for a bit of rest.

Tonight: we are on the hunt for Vietnamese pho! I know, it seems a funny dish for us to seek out in France, but Vietnam was once a French colony and the fragrant beef soup seems just the thing to warm us after the chilly, damp weather we’ve been having.

Wish us luck,


March 30, 2016 – Paris

Dear world,

Writing from a tiny attic apartment in the heart of Paris.

Dario and I flew in yesterday, rushing off after a suddenly-final day at CTV and heading straight to the airport for an overnight flight across the Atlantic.

We got into Charles de Gaulle around 1 p.m. and fiddled with the airport bank machines until, finally, they spat out enough Euros to get us into town. Then we were on a train and speeding through the suburbs and straight into the heart of the city.

By 4 p.m. we were climbing the six stories to our top-floor apartment on a side street behind the Louvre, then up another twisted back set of stairs (our backpacks scraping against the walls because the corridor was so narrow) and squeezing through a tiny door into a tiny apartment with a sloped ceiling and an ancient wooden beam propping the whole thing up.


We dropped off our bags and set out across the Seine, crossing the pedestrian bridge that was once weighed down by lovers’ locks. Today, there is a new smooth glass barrier along the edge of the walkway.

We wandered through the 7th arrondissement, hardly believing that only 12 hours ago we were sitting at our desks in Scarborough. As the drizzle developed into a more pronounced downpour, we ducked into a little café and ordered two orders of tartine au saumon fumé and a side of salad and two glasses of white wine.

We ate beside the window and watched  pedestrians rushing through the rain, sheltering their hair and baguettes from the precipitation.

Then we wandered back to our funny little apartment, stopping briefly to pick up a five-Euro bottle of wine and some other groceries, and then detouring through the Tuileries before climbing the uneven wooden steps and falling into bed.


After a sleep punctuated by the wide-awake effects of jet lag and the stomach-turning effects of drinking foreign tap water, I finally woke up late, just before 11 a.m., and instantly felt guilty for indulging in such a lazy morning.

I shook Dario awake and we groggily pulled on some clothing and headed out for the morning. Our first stop was the Paris tourism office, where we picked up our museum passes for the next few days.

Then we crossed the river over into the 5th arrondissement, stopping briefly to split a nutella and strawberry crepe  before wandering in search of the Marché Mouffetard, as recommended by Chan-Family-travel-guru Rick Steves. After walking up a series of winding cobblestone side streets, we eventually descended down a little pathway, lined with stalls selling wine and cheese and produce and little boulangeries.

We browsed the brie and stacks of wine bottles and thick white stalks of asparagus, before, once again, the rain picked up and we sought shelter inside a dark little restaurant advertising prix-fixe meals for only nine Euros.

We shook off our umbrella and ducked inside, where a friendly server brought us duck pate and roast chicken and crème caramel. We sipped on café crème and watched the street scene out the window before venturing back into the rain and walking back to our apartment for a well-deserved nap.

This evening we left the apartment at around 6:30 p.m. and walked back over the Seine, along the wide commercial street of Saint-Germaine before cutting up towards Montparnasse. The rain had let up by night-time, leaving behind a sheen on the streets and giving everything an evening glow.


We strolled around open-air bars and cafés in Montparnasse, squeezing between crowds conversing in fast-paced French, and then eventually made our way back towards the apartment by way of the Luxembourg gardens.

Once back, we settled down at the rickety wooden table in our apartment and feasted on baguette and brie and cherry tomatoes and prosciutto and, of course, a couple glasses of red wine.

Now it’s almost midnight and I’m about ready to collapse into bed (but not too enthusiastically, lest I whack my head against the wooden beam suspended right over our little mattress).

Tomorrow we plan to activate our museum passes and start touring in earnest. And in the evening, we’re hoping to meet up with a friend who I haven’t seen since Vancouver. Both very exciting prospects.

We are loving the aimless walks and cheap wine and cheese and the feeling of setting off, away from home, and dropping into somewhere beautiful and new.

Until tomorrow – à demain!