where the writers are
Foreign

Red Room has changed the look of the website, and I feel disoriented, as if I were visiting a foreign place, one I haven’t visited for a while, and everything has changed:  is bigger smaller different-colored, the tobacco shop has been replaced by a women’s clothing store, the pastry across the street is under new management.  Do I even remember my password?  Have the locks been changed?

Starting to think about the annual transhumance.  We leave for Paris in three weeks.  What I’m thinking most about is food:  cheese (and the cheese store’s gnocchi and its pesto), and cakes—chocolate cakes from Hévin, lemon tarts from—no, never mind the name, they once gave my husband change for a small bill at the cash counter  when he’d given them a much larger bill, and afterwards he refused to go back, though he was quite happy to stand on the sidewalk pointing at what he wanted while I went in and bought it.

It feels like fall here:  the air is cooler, damp-foggy in the morning like the west coast of Donegal, then crisp and golden later like—well, like here, but also like France.