g'morning.

It finally came. I have waited for it, patiently and for months, and it finally came. The story I had written, unknowingly yet so clearly and precisely, finally came to be, like ink to the paper it came. My perfect morning.
I slept well last night, and despite staying up until 3:00am, woke before 10:00. Maybe I was eager to begin what I thought was my perfect day in France, maybe I just wanted another one of the delectable apple turnover treats from the boulangerie. Whatever it was, the down covers didn’t seem as inviting, the warmth of the sheets not quite as enticing and so I stirred from my sleep. I padded across the stone floor in my Minnetonka Moccasins and threw on my clothes. I covered my very American jeans and tee with a slightly more European pea coat and grabbed the keys. Driving into town this morning felt different. I know, its not as though I was up before the animals or something, or like the dew had yet to lift itself off of the grass or anything like that, but I felt fresh and as though my new home was becoming just that. Home. The peaks of the Alpilles, although faded behind a layer of haze, jutted out over the knotty trees as I turned onto D30 toward St. Remy. I have finally found a baker. This was a key piece of the perfect picture for me. Not having a baker in the south of France made me feel lost, like not knowing where the closest Chili’s is back in the states. But this morning, I knew where I was headed and although it was only my second trip, I felt like the baker was waiting for me, eager to greet me as a friend and distribute to me baked goodness, like a sweet nectar of the gods. I snapped back from my dreams of ‘Chauson aux Pommes’ and patiently searched for a parking place. Once around the small town and I happened on just the spot, two doors down from the patisserie. Inside the friendly owner had delights galore. Flaky crusts crammed with everything imaginable, but my eyes saw only one. There it was, the apple-filled delicacy, waiting for me to pluck it up. I bought two baguettes and two pastries (ordering in near-perfect French…) and proudly pulled away. Arriving back at Mas Dagan, I prepped my coffee and set it to percolate. This aspect, the coffee making procedure, was the sole blemish on an otherwise idyllic morning. In general, I like to French press my coffee, not because I’m haughty-taughty, but just because I like the way it makes me feel when I make it. Anyway, the coffee maker would have to do for today, so I placed my turnover on a plate and brought it just outside my doorstep to an antiquated table, bathing in the warmth of the sun peaking over the tree line. In moments my coffee was done and I filled my mug to the brim. Carefully stepping out to my chair, I pulled the door closed behind me and settled in. I was finally here, in the center of the painting of which I had become the artist so long ago. The canvas had been stretched, the brush had been cleaned and the final strokes of paint were drying. I was apart of my dream and all was as I had hoped it would be