All of the archaeologists I know are off to Crete, to Hadrian’s Wall, to the St. Bernard Pass, to destinations long past, far off, away from here and from the humdrum world. I tend to get wistful this time of year, as my thoughts turn to things foreign but achingly familiar.
Here, I’m drinking a cool Provence rosé, stuffing an eggplant with herb-saturated “dirty rice” (reminiscent of flavors both Creole/Cajun and Turkish by way of Mallorca and a friend there who was a great cook), and listening to some new Swedish tenors and German baritones I’ve found, singing Italian arias. I was not meant to be an American!
Midnight in Paris made me homesick for a little hotel I found one year in the St-Germain-des-Prés area, and another, another year, near the disappeared Bastille. If only travel to favorite eras—and places—were as easy as Woody Allen makes it seem, no questions asked, no passport required.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Temple of Olympian Zeus, Athens
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