Hopeless romantic

It’s true, I am a hopeless romantic.  The key word being hopeless.   *le sigh*

This fact was only reinforced as I read My Life in France, by Julia Child.  Loved it.  I loved reading of Paris, marketplaces, and culinary delights (though it made me terribly hungry); I loved reading of clever Valentine’s Day cards, photography, and adventures (misses too).  And I loved reading of tables filled with good food, fine wines, and the company of friends.  

It’s the best of life, my friends …

Of course, I did chuckle a bit toward the end. She wrote of going to their summer home in France for the last time. The people who had made it come alive, were no more; so she traveled with her niece and her family, to hand over the keys and say goodbye. She wrote quite matter-of-factly. C’est la vie!  Therefore, she could not imagine what could possess her niece burst into tears one day. Alors!  I understood fully.

Personally, I like to think us romantics make the world a bit brighter … when we’re not crying, naturally.