After Berlin I was burned out. The shock of meeting the alter ego of Siena just hours after kissing her goodbye was overwhelming. In the German metropolis I worked with a glass of prosecco in the hotel lobby and walked post-war-era streets in search of a Deutsch Bellezza… in vain. Berlin was not for me, though my teenagers say it’s the hot place to be these days. I’ll pass.
Cynical and uninformed, I know. Please forgive me.
This week we gathered up the little girls and headed down to Morat, a charming little Swiss town nestled on the lakeside. Tall ramparts surround the village, and we walked the length of them, scratching our names into the limestone walls. Pumpkin patching, we picked our treasures and carried them on our laps like babies. It felt good to be together – to feel small hands in big ones – to laugh over a lunch of calzone – see the sun in their hair.
This morning I’ll pack my bags for tomorrow’s flight to Prague, and while I’m excited to discover what some call Europe’s most beautiful city, something there is that keeps me here… with little hands and pumpkins. With sunshine on smiling faces.