The one in which the Americans go home and have turkey

Do you know what I need? 

To escape into the mountains, surrounded by tall trees.

I will lay on the moss, and breathe in the scent of mushrooms,

flowers and wet soil.

L’ Échappée, Les Discrets

After an exhausting week of packing up the Roskilde apartment and moving it into storage (not to mention The Sliding Glass Door Incident), a lovely going-away dinner and last-night in a Danish B&B, a train to Copenhagen, two planes, three countries total, eleven hours in the air, several movies and a novel, a few absurdly small bottles of white wine, a complimentary (disgusting) vegetarian hot-pocket that left much to be desired (which I tell myself not to eat every time I fly AirCanda, and yet, somehow, always do), two hours in the car, and twenty-four hours without sleep ... we finally made it home.  And had an American Thanksgiving involving two fat birds, a pumpkin cheesecake pie, and Almost All of the Siblings.

It was a smashing success.

And now I'm spending the weekend grappling with my jet-lag, which has me in bed by nine (in a doze-off-doze-on again kind of way, if that makes any sense), and wide awake at 3 a.m. which is, quite frankly, downright boring.  There's isn't a lot to do around here at 3 a.m., minus a brisk mountain run with the bears.

Actually, it almost feels like time stands still for this little Northeast Georgia hamlet.  Aside from the recently-new editor of the local paper, that is (who allegedly can spell); and the recently-new sheriff (who did not have a rumored DUI like his predecessor). To be honest, I was a little sad to hear about these replacements. In one fell swoop, the town lost a great deal of its humorous natural charm.  I'll just have to content myself with the Charming Thing that is Windstream, Incompetent Internet Service Provider to these parts which, incidentally, has me awkwardly sitting on the top step of the basement stairwell as I type.  Because that is where it works in this house.

It's good to be home.

Late tonight, when all twelve of us (plus a fiance, one or two girlfriends, and, most likely, a few strays) are in the same house again, we are having our yearly Christmas Tree-Trimming Party, the one wherein we turn on the old Christmas vinyls, get out the funky ornaments and thirty-something nutcrackers, and eat leftover pie.  It's gonna' be grand.

And there was much rejoicing and an absurd amount of coffee.

H a p p y  C h r i s t m a s  S e a s o n ,

E  v e r y o n e !

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