And I would eat that simple French omelette that Henry James described so poignantly in The Ambassadors.
… he, for the hour, saw reasons enough in the mere way the bright clean ordered water-side life came in at the open window? — the mere way Madame de Vionnet, opposite him over their intensely white table-linen, their omelette aux tomates, their bottle of straw-coloured Chablis, thanked him for everything almost with the smile of a child, while her grey eyes moved in and out of their talk, back to the quarter of the warm spring air, in which early summer had already begun to throb, and then back again to his face and their human questions.
I would walk out to a little shop, with my cloth bag, then back to sit in the garden.
I would find repose. (And have just come across the phrase “altar of repose,” which is what my day would be.)
image: Provence Mon Amour