Far from home, I marvel at the things I’ve never seen but I take comfort in those that I know well.
Here, lemons not only grow on trees, they grow huge and then fall on the ground where I pick them up and use them in my dinner. I grill fish over a real wood fire (no charcoal briquets) to eat with bread our hosts baked this morning and with wine made at the vineyard down the road.
My husband, who prefers the local beer, makes a salad fashioned from what we bought from a produce stand. As we prepare our meal, the moon rises.
Ah, the moon. It shines down on the two of us and on every other person I cherish on this planet and on the other seven billion or so that I don’t know well, don’t particularly care for or have yet to meet. There is something comforting in the light of the moon. It’s ubiquity? It’s consistency? It’s familiarity?
I think it is all of those and more. I deliberately put the image of the moon on the cover of my novel c3, because there is nothing more classically feminine. It is is mysterious, maternal, and romantic all at once. My husband’s hand reaches for mine as we watch it rise, and a piece of an old poem floats through my head.
Exactly. Dinner can wait. I take a quick photo of the rising glow in the eastern sky, and we pause our work and dance.
(The poetry is by the famous late nineteenth century fanciful poet Edward Lear. A runcible spoon is actually a fork curved like a spoon, with three broad prongs, like the kind you get a Taco Bell. Learn more about the wonderful place we visited at bouca-agroturismo.com)
(For more vacation-inspired epiphanies see Our Brand is Crisis on my z2 blog, Happy International Day of Peace, Alberto and Maria on my x0 blog, and That’s Why They Play the Game on my d4 blog.)