Home is where the enchiladas are.

Ah, back...here.

The train ride back was a beautiful one that passed by a mountain range and a really cool, and really long highway that went along that mountain range, about half way up. Because of how steep the mountain was, the highway wasn't actually on the Mountain; instead, it was built on supports, like a bridge and one lane was higher than the other and each had their own walls. It wound through the mountain range and has to be up there for longest bridge in the world...if they consider it a bridge, which I would, even though it's not over water.

So, I went to the store, the new one that just opened half a block away (about time), when we got back, since we had no food that was good after being gone a week. I paid, left, and went back after taking 4 steps out the door because I forgot the milk. After dinner, I stopped back again to see if they had diapers. That was on my way to the other store. After I shopped, I had to go back to the first one yet again because Beth wanted an avocado and they are the only store with ripe ones at the moment. The annoying thing is, I can't even speak French to explain to these people why I keep coming back. They're gonna think I have some unhealthy fetish with food.

Also, anyone with kids, recent kids, who's still reading this blog, please let me know if your kid also throws a fit every night when he/she is told that it's bed time. Or is it just Ben?

Looks like not, I just searched online. I guess Ben's actually doing quite well. He stays in his bed, possibly because he knows I'll confiscate his nooker if he doesn't listen to us, and for the most part just lays quietly till he's asleep. The tantrum every night occurs when we tell him it's bedtime...once the machinery starts rolling, he's generally fine. We just tell him he can snuggle mama in the morning and that he's safe in bed because he has a big strong daddy in the house to keep him safe. No smart remarks from the peanut gallery thank you very much.

Anyway, we're at our faux home safe and sound and looking forward to being back home home. Which led me to consider what home actually is. People say, where the heart is, but what that means is vague. I could say family but we have that here, each other. I could say good food, but for some reason the French do consider this good food. I think it's a combination of all that. A comfortable place where needs are all met and wants are available. Reasonable wants. For instance, home for an Ethiopian might be a shack near family where they know how to get water and food and should they want it, entertainment, such as soccer or other games. Put them in Middleton, and I'm sure they could get used to it (if you gave them some money), but it might not feel like home. I dunno. It's just a made up scenario in order to see if my definition fits. Seems to work ok, though in that extreme case the Ethiopian might be willing to live his life away from home.

4 days left!