Tomorrow we are leaving on the proverbial jet plane, coming back again before the New Year. We’ll be traveling through the dreaded Heathrow airport at the worst travel time of the year to visit precious family in Edinburgh. The weather there is forecast to be dark and dreary, all the more reason to spend time over tea and conversation in one of the lovely museum cafés. That’s the greatest gift I can image.
We are fond of Edinburgh, and the Scots. They remind me of the unpretentious folk of Portland before the big in-migration from the East. The architecture is grave, and uniform, but evocative of the thriving Georgian and Victorian eras. The individual neighborhoods have their own character and claim to ancient lore, with plaques here and there commemorating it, and the city is one of the most walkable anywhere. Plus, I really like bagpipes and kilts.
Back home in Nice, people will be celebrating with parties galore and feasts of oysters, foie gras, rich cakes and champagne. Then they’ll walk it off along the sunny Promenade, giving friends encountered along the way warm bisous and seasonal greetings. The French Riviera sun is almost always the biggest Christmas gift for the locals.
We’ll leave the sun for the warmth of a different kind. Perhaps next year we’ll be gifted with both.