Jet lag messes with your mind. What else, besides perhaps 22 hours of travel with small children, could have you questioning whether even the most glorious the trip was really worth it. I mean, I could have stayed in the same time zone and I’d be asleep now. So would the six other people in the house, two of whom are incredibly noisy and seem to take it upon themselves to mimic large elephants when tiptoeing around at 3 am. One of them, who has not used toilet paper for at least two years now, goose-stepped into my room at two and asked for some. Really?
It is now that I must remind myself of the glorious azure skies, the balmy seas, the thrill of new places, new words, new foods, and the company of friends who make it worth the 5,000 mile trek and yes, the simplicity of travel and why it’s all worth it. Our main focus of the day was where we ought to go, how we ought to get there, and what we ought to eat on the way. Nothing more. Not unless you count the one constant: how to avoid the wrath of French people. Like the woman who we paid extra so we could eat ice cream in her store rather that take it out, but who moaned audibly when Sidney dripped (shock!) ice cream on a chair. Like the guardienne of our little park who did not let us sit on certain patches of grass (me), climb trees (Efram), or play ball (Bennett). Or our precious landlady who came over as we were about to leave for the airport to pick up her key and return our deposit and who feigned a heart attack when she saw the state of our apartment: “Mais, I do not think I knew how many children you had!”
But we are home now. And while we were sad to leave France, we are happy to be here. Even at three am.

(ps: Who, after all, can resist Brainy Smurf gelato? Not the French. This stuff was everywhere.)