To get home. From the door to our appartment in Provence to the door of our home. This is me at the Frankfurt airport taking it on the chin and doing what the locals do.
Home. Respite, fallen apples, crisp fall air, yellow and red leaves, a large kitchen (compared to our other one), space to live, to breath, to be but mostly, quiet.
We spent about 11 hours in line-ups waiting to be rerouted, waiting to have our passport checked, rechecked, and checked again, to board, to deboard.
During all this waiting, we had a lot of very good talks with other stranded strangers about the state of the world in general.
Arriving in Canada, we are asked if we heard about the shootings in Ottawa, in Québec, people are a little cautious, careful as they measure out their days in between events.
We are fortunate to live where we live where freedom and fundamental rights are taken for granted. Line-ups and long talks with people from the four corners of the world emphasized this and reminded us how we have a lot more in common with eachother than we think. 44 hours well spent.