Want France

Rock Star and his friend were dying for hamburgers today, so I took the boys to Red Robin. It’s not fois gras and truffles in Provencal like their sister is probably enjoying, but Bon Apetit anyhoo. They enjoyed it, by gosh.

We finally heard from Butterfly in France, with much drama via voice mail. Apparently her debit card was “not working,” and she was in a panic, because, People, she had more French shopping to do! After much back and forth with the bank, we discovered that she’d reached the cap the bank had put on her account, unbeknownst to us. (The real story is probably that there are not enough Euros in all the cash stations in Nice to support her spending habits!) So we removed the cap, with the caveat that Butterfly remember to be thrifty with her Euros, as we are not The Hilton Family. But I am mighty proud of my daughter's selfless attempts to boost the French economy.

Then I got a text message from Butterfly, telling me she was having a wonderful time photographing lavender fields and visiting vineyards and wine tasting. And that she was in love. (I’m hoping with the local ambience and not some local French boy named Francois.) And that the class was on a bus, headed to an “Uber Rich” place. (I’m assuming she means the Principality of Monaco.) And that tomorrow they would hit the beaches in Nice. (Keep your top on, please. For Mommy.)

So I’ve been in a wistful, dreamy mood all day, longing to go to France. I was there once with my family when I was twenty. And it was lovely. As far as I remember. In all honesty, I didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have, and I spent the better part of the trip with my nose in a romance novel; my attempt at a hideaway from my annoying younger brothers.

I’ve been bitten by the France bug, pretty darn bad. So tonight I will nurse my Chablis and listen to “Claire de Lune” and pine for lavender fields. More on my France-lust manana. I mean “demain.”