It’s been less than 24 hours. And this is apparent. I never really left. And either did Slaine. That dark New England winter. I just imagined it. A bad dream. That lack of color, those blues and grays, surely an illusion.

HERE, hillsides dotted with great gobs of egg yolk yellow. March 27th, and the forsythia are shouting from every coin. My tulips are six inches tall! When did this happen?

Closing the shutters for the very first evening at 9 pm, I breathe in the sweet scents of grass and mouton. All matter of baby bahhing, as I am gently reminded, yes pinch me, I am here, I am here, I am here! I am present on many levels here in the verdant paradise once again.

On my very first full day, all the neighbors up and down the hill, stop to say hi. “We saw the lights. We knew you were back. Et le chien? Ca va?”

My first stop on the drive down from Michel and Marie France’s house is at Bio Vital, in Brive, my favorite organic grocery shop. Weary and bleary eyed, I want to make sure I have some decent nourishment having missed Bernard and Luc at the Friday Souillac market. A whole week to wait for those wonderful repasts.

I buy something I don’t even love, namely broccoli. But if broccoli can create rapture, then this is it. I have never tasted steamed broccoli with this sweet flavor. La terre. This effusive French earth. It permeates and influences everything; families, food, culture. I see it here on my own hillside.

I turn in knowing that this is the first of many early mornings and sunset wonders that soon await me. Nascent spring, March.

Happiness permeates my jetlagged body. Here’s what I know though. It does not get any better than this.

(originally written March 27, 2006)