My parents have decided that when they retire, they’re going to move to France and start an alpaca farm (the sheer specificity of this makes me smile). I’ve insisted they let me name the alpacas, and have already decided that one of them will be Frederick, and another Viola.
But until the time comes for a more permanent relocation, France remains my family’s annual vacation spot. My father lived there for some time, and is fluent. I am…less than fluent, but get by. My mum doesn’t speak French–well, she’s quite good with ordering food, having been a caterer–but is happy enough to point and say, “Je voudrais ca.”
Last year, I met up with my parents in Paris at the end of my three month stint in Liverpool. The Near Witch hadn’t come out yet, and I’d just finished the first draft of The Archived. It was a trip of stone and moss.
It was the perfect ending to a time in England.
This trip promises to be a bit different. We’re lurking at the edges of cities, within walking distance of the center, and driving distance of the dozen small towns nestled beyond.
I am going dark in the sense that I won’t be, you know, living on the internet as I usually do.
But I can’t promise there won’t be any posts here because I’m waiting to ANNOUNCE! THINGS! And if I get the chance to ANNOUNCE! THINGS! then I will hunt down an internet café or beg some hot young Frenchman to let me borrow his computer so that I can post (and, you know, admire said young frenchman).