Yesterday I flew home. Claire was at the airport with a bouquet of flowers, Celia was back at the house, just home from school. The best part of being back: seeing their sweet faces. Tom flies in today; he took the slow way back to Stockholm, from Vienna by train.
This morning I woke early--traveling west will do that to you--and for a moment I didn't know where I was. The funky hotel near Arlanda Airport outside Stockholm? the Simony Guesthouse overlooking the Hallstatt Zee? the thickly walled medieval Pension Adelbart in Czesky Krumlov? the hotel on the Weiner Haupstrasse only a few minutes walk from Suzanne in Vienna? the hostel in Prague (the less said about that, the better--we're too old for hostels, we've learned)? the lovely lakeside home of Dan and Ann-Katrin? None of those, but our own familiar room in our cluttered two-story colonial.
It was early enough that I had time for a walk before staring the day. It was just lightening when I left the house and bats darted across the sky in search of their last snacks before bedtime. The Virginia air hangs heavy. It is summer in the suburbs. I'm home.