Miss Emerald Isle

Today is cleaning day. And to make it more fun for myself I like to turn on the music and dance like Hank Azaria in The Birdcage. Today as I swept and the Baby followed me around with the dustpan, the Chieftains began to play. And their resonant fiddles and Gaelic rhythm pulled me in, transported me to another place, blew sound through the tiny hollow left from leaving Ireland.

I did not expect to miss the small, green island so much. To be honest, I couldn't wait to leave the constant chill and grey skies. I longed for sun and warmth and now I've found them. I just didn't know how warm all my Irish friends made me....all the tea, laughter, talking, talking, talking.

Being taken back this morning made me remember what unique joy there is in rushing into a warm, dark, pub from the frigid cold of outside; shedding coats and scarves, warm greetings beckoning, cheeks flushed from the wind, sitting down to a pint of Guinness.

I love it here in France, no question, and there are things here that are just as lovely in their own way. We all know them and you've heard countless people rhapsodize about them. And this is because they're true.

But what is also true is the love of good friends, the common misery of braving cold, slicing rain, the richness and sadness of the music when it's sung and played genuinely in a small pub, and laughter that fills your eyes.

I'm homesick for you Ireland. Homesick. It's true.