A series of concrete slabs lines a rocky part of the seacoast, and when I saw folks sunbathing there, I wondered how they got into the hazardous-looking, boulder-filled ocean to cool off. Even a chicken needs to refresh when turning around on a rotisserie spit. Not a place one would want to dive in. At least not headfirst.
Then I spied a ladder fixed to the rocks at one end of the row of concrete slabs. Climb in, climb out. Kind of makes the Mediterranean Sea your own private pool. Anyhow, that's where you'll find me tomorrow.
The day after tomorrow, we will consult our compass (and hope there's not some cute kid standing in the middle of it), and head to Abeilhan for two months.
Abeilhan is waaaaay out in the country in the Languedoc region of Southern France, near the Spanish border. It's not even a town, it's a hamlet (the smallest recognized form of communal entity in France). I think "Abeilhan" is French for "Hooterville." Anyhow, the house is big and lovely, and we have invited friends and family to come stay with us while we dabble at living in the French boonies -- er, countryside. If David Sedaris can do it, so can we!
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