Gargoyle Seaweed

I don't think I've ever heard a joke in French.  I don't think the French are a very funny people.  I don't think I laughed in France.  I don't mean to suggest I didn't enjoy myself - just that I didn't hear much laughing.

The British, however, are hilarious.  One night when our Internet was being balky we fired up some Monty Python clips.  Good stuff, even if this reference does age me.

I'm back out on my Gothic Quarter balcony, three flights up, watching people walk by.  I'm starting to recognize some of these individuals which is a very good thing or a very bad thing.  I've come down with a cold - not a good thing - but my bowels have been working like clockwork since I re-entered Spain - decidedly good.  I like this town.  I could come back to this town and I don't go back anywhere.

I was thinking back on the end of my drinking days.  I can clearly remember wondering if I would not be able to take care of myself at some point in the future.  I wasn't a gutter drunk but I sure was a you-can-see-the-gutter-from-here drunk.  I was moving toward the gutter faster than I was going the other way.  So here I sit, perched like a gargoyle on his narrow perch, my beloved wife hovering nearby, enough time and money that I can take a two month vacation half a world away.

This is some good stuff.  I'm proud that I've put in the effort and the work to get here and I'm acutely aware of my tremendous good fortune.