Like an old, warm, fuzzy sweater

We're back in France.

Today I finally had a chance to watch Game of Thrones. Actually I watched over the shoulder of the guy ahead of me in seat 39A and was appalled at the cinematography, the mediocre effects, and most especially by the truly awful (subtitled) dialogue.

We were part of the 450 people on a Boeing 777 jet from Montreal to Paris. I have to say that that’s far too many people to stuff into a tin can for six or seven hours. It was oppressive. That endurance was made worse by sitting endlessly for deicing at both Halifax and Montreal.

Still, at Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport, after exiting the completely unfettered “Rien à déclarer” exit we were able to sit down for a coffee and a bite to eat.

I walked up to the counter at Brioche Dorée, said “Bonjour!” and ordered a coffee and a pain aux raisins, and found myself smiling, and feeling an incredible happy warmth. It was like waking up on a cold morning, then pulling on a thick, warm, soft sweater and being wrapped in comfort.

Was it the finest pain aux raisins that I have ever had? Not at all. But after three months of giant, sticky, heavy Canadian baked goods it was a true delight.

So now we’re settling in, comparing Nova Scotia and France (dear God, I ate an apple tonight and it was like manna from heaven) and trying to define just how we’re going to balance these two lovely existences.