Today began early, packing our accumulated belongings for the journey south to Provence. While the girls finished the final stages of our now-familiar moving-day ritual, Dad slipped onto the Métro for one last mission near the Champs-Élysées: returning to a watch boutique that possessed a particular watch he'd been trying to acquire for years—and, improbably, was willing to sell it to him.
The opportunity seemed to have begun with a conversation several days earlier with our saleswoman, Mai. Initially, the watch was unequivocally display only. Dad told her about the CWT and explained that it wouldn't merely be another possession; it would become an artifact of this strange, audacious year, accumulating scratches and stories across the world and, hopefully, surviving him altogether. Something resonated. Mai took his information and promised to investigate.
At 10:30 this morning, when the boutique opened, she was waiting. The watch was fitted, the paperwork completed, and years of fruitless searching ended with a small green bag in hand and a Métro ride home.
Dad reunited with the girls, who had chosen their own pre-departure indulgence—manicures and pedicures—and we headed for the train to Aix-en-Provence. This time there were no missed stops, sealed doors, or involuntary excursions. We boarded, traveled, and disembarked with almost suspicious competence.
A short Uber delivered us to our home for the next ten days in the heart of Aix. Cozy and simple would be charitable euphemisms. There is no air conditioning, and the kitchen inventory appears to have been curated by someone philosophically opposed to utensils. But location is its redemption: step outside and we're immediately among the restaurants, markets, shops, and narrow streets of Old Aix. For ten days, that's a trade we'll happily make.
By evening, nobody possessed the fortitude to christen the Spartan kitchen, so we abandoned fiscal and nutritional virtue and went searching for Japanese food. We were rewarded with some of the best sushi we've ever eaten.
Cooking at home is cheaper. It's healthier. It's usually the responsible choice.
But after packing an apartment, traversing France by rail, unpacking another apartment, and discovering you own approximately three usable forks, sometimes the commander has to recognize deteriorating morale and feed the troops immediately, cost be damned.