Home in the Balkans

I am home.  We had an overnight near Istanbul International Airport, explored the area around the hotel by foot, had a lovely Turkish lunch, were appalled by the prices in the airport (anyone care for a 20 Euro glass of wine or a 6 Euro tiny glass of sparkling water?), and had a relatively smooth and uneventful flight and taxi ride home.


I believe I did well on the flights.  I listened to some audiobooks and read some Kindle books on the subject of writing, and I watched pieces of two movies that have been mentioned in some of my books as plot examples (Casablanca and The Fugitive).  It was, overall, not a terrible use of the time.  I've done worse.

I am at home now.  At my own desk, with my own kitchen.  It is always an ecstatic relief to be at home after having been at others' mercy for a period of time.  Being a house guest can be highly overrated.  I have a clean kitchen to go to now, where I can prepare my food and my home remedies whenever I need to, without having to plough through … well, never mind.  And I have a place to exercise, a heater that I can turn on whenever I want, a bathroom that I am not afraid to walk into, and a quiet distraction-free desk to work at … especially in the mornings.  I can walk down the street whenever I need to to get meat and vegetables.  I have no one preparing pasta for me or giving me cookies or insisting I eat the mince pies.  

And in my mornings, when my husband is asleep, I have a quiet place to write.



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