My, it was an awful trip getting here; I'm boycotting France for awhile, I think, although Carmen kindly offered the loan of her apartment during her next holiday and we'll probably accept, being fond of lovely, tastefully furnished Parisian lofts and handsome neighborhoods with more patisseries than yoga - erm - what do you call a yoga gym? A depot? I don't know - than yoga depots.
So many things have been so trying that last night, after finally getting to bed in my brother's vermin-infested Donlands basement (which is no reflection on his family's housekeeping as Toronto is full of vermin - I hope Charlie and Minou like eating bugs, Sugarplum), despite my extreme exhaustion I couldn't sleep with frustration and tears of unwarranted self pity until I took fifteen minutes to take stock of each of the problems I was currently facing and think up three or four solutions for each. Then I felt good. I've been under a mischievous star which hasn't interfered with the overall good qualities of my life but has been making almost every small thing that could go wrong go wrong - one of those situations where the temptation is to stamp your feet but the only solution is taking control.
In any case, it's lovely to be with my family now - everybody but Elvis is here - and while I'm not in the thralls of ecstatic return because frankly, Toronto is a lot uglier than Brussels, it was great this morning to speed around on Luke Duke's big manly bike on the wide roads where I wasn't flipping over tram tracks or atmospherically quaint cobblestones, and then getting epilated by those nice Indochinese ladies up the street from my old apartment and buying enough Burt's Bees cosmetics to see me through until an understanding friend or relative visits Brussels.