The power of prose.

Yesterday, we were hit with high winds and a snow squall and it made me nostalgic.

Way back in the day, on the cusp of my move from Ohio to the Netherlands, I had rented a room from a friend while my crated belongings steamed their way east.  She had a Victorian monster in the original settlement of Cleveland - Ohio City, on the Cuyahoga River.  This was one of those neighborhoods that was just beginning to rise from decay to decadence.  It wasn't even half way there at the time.  I sat in my garret room, surrounded by an alarming array of antiques and collectibles (alarming because a- they weren't mine, b- they were mostly fragile and c- I'm not known for my graceful movements), spending my remaining stateside days reading.  I happened to be reading A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle, while a blizzard raged outside.  About halfway through the book, I was overcome with a desire to dine on baguettes and Brie, washed down with a nice fruity (French) wine.  When I say 'overcome', I mean it.  I pulled on boots, hat, scarf, gloves, wool coat, and fought my way blindly through the snow until I reached the West Side Market, some 12 blocks away (including a bridge).   Let me say, here, that I miss that market something fierce.  Of course, the market was less glitzy when I was a customer, but it was like having a little pocket of Europe in your backyard.  

I got my baguette, my cheese and a cheap bottle of vino and battled my way back.  I finished the book, sitting on the floor with my repast.  Heaven.