A summer in France. Le savoir vivre. Visits in old villages on sunny afternoons in a dreamy mood, questioning the concept of ever returning back home from these places. For some reason, just then, the moment you think: What about staying, opening a nice café or hotel, or just staying without opening anything, just being here and seeing where the thoughts go? – that very moment you see this old house.
The rusty fence with a squeaking door, high summer grass growing through the pickets. The roof slightly bent, some shingles missing, a window broken maybe, but full of romance and cosiness and a sense of lazy afternoons.
Just fix the windows, paint the walls in a bright turquoise, plant an apple tree – no, cherry, it must be cherry – and put in a sofa with flower patterns and fluffy cushions. Then put a kettle on the stove and sit down and write a chapter of your novel until the next door neighbor comes around to bring you fresh eggs and have a little chat. Yes, so you can try your broken French and get better in it over time.
I love those houses. They make me smile, because they carry the promise of a life in inner harmony. And they make me sad as well, because I know that I will not buy it anyway out of fear that too much of inner harmony will drive me nuts one day not so far away.
Or will it?
Why not try?
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