why do i keep having random flashbacks to france? it's not that i wouldn't love to see other nations–because believe me, i would had i the chance, and i'm really excited to visit indonesia this summer–but i miss my time in provence so much. it's like this wistful dream that sometimes seems quite unreal–because i was so happy there, so charged with energy and adventure, that i think sometimes that it can't be real; for how could so much happiness be possible?
one great tragedy is that i had the world's crappiest camera while i was there: a $100 (all i could afford to spend at the time) digital, 3-pixel, grainy, dysfunctional disaster that deleted half of my photos somehow, and those it did take were hardly comparable with the real thing. please don't conceive the notion that the photo here is an accurate representation of the south of france; the colors are all washed out, whereas provence is all wild and vibrant color–think of the violets in h.m. forster's a room with a view (where, incidentally, is portrayed the best love scene in the novel). at any rate, it's not a great photo.
on the other hand...it's such a compelling reason to go back.
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