Ten hours to home.
Yann at the wheel,
Paris to Marseille.
Before we leave he says:
"Only two ten minute breaks, and I mean it."
We shake our heads dreadfully and get it.
The car, stacked high with everything imaginable:
Too much brocante,
Too many coats,
Too many computer wires, cameras, back packs and a boy who is too tall for a little car.
I am reduced to the back seat,
"Because you sleep anywhere, anyway and you do not drive."
Sacha has downloaded movies.
I watch them.
I take photos from the car window.
I post to Facebook.
I sleep.
I want to act like I am five and scream,
"Are we there yet?" Which I realize only now means,
"Get me out of here!!!!!"
Yann doesn't talk in cars.
Period.
My butt hurts from sitting.
I think of Chelsea back in Paris and tear up.
I think of my Mom and know how she must feel when I leave.
I tear up.
I buy malt balls at the gas station... in less than five minutes I decide to eat all of them.
And do.
Without guilt or shame that I did not share.
The scenery changes from city to country, from cold to colder, snow, rain, traffic jam and then home.
