When at home, I sit. Sit to write. Sit to read. Sit until my legs go numb. While on holiday, as we are now, I like to move. But since we left Richmond Wednesday, I’ve been sitting. Waiting for planes. In the plane (sleeping was even done while sitting). In a car with friends going for lunch and coming to their place. Then dinner. Then breakfast. True, we took a short walk in between. True, we also sat and had some of the best bread I’ve eaten in two years for lunch, and today the nicest tart with coconut and lavender. (Ted thought it tasted like soap, I thought it tasted like heaven.)

However, one cannot complain about all the sitting required to wander around France. It is a luxury. And for a writer, a necessity. Why? Details. When one rushes through life, the world is a blur. When I sit at home in front of my computer writing, the world is out of focus. So I must stop and gather data for the future.

So today I sat with dear friends sharing stories and wine at one of only four restaurant tables among the little cobblestone streets of Simiane la Rotonde-a charming little village where the cars park above or below the town and you wak in. I sketched.  I saw the streets. I saw a man who wandered the town looking for his lost girlfriend, and three minutes later I saw the girlfriend looking for the boyfriend she believed to be lost. I saw friendly people serving lunch amid geraniums waving hello, as an old wooden door up the curving walk tugs at my curiosity.

By sitting, by sketching, I actively slowed down time, and relished in the details that will add to my memory, add to my ability to see. I will save all of it for another story.