Trapped

I feel like all the books I've taken to reading recently are intentionally reminding me how stuck in the US I am. For the past two years I've cycled between earning money and going on trips. Now I'm not doing either. The book I'm currently reading was written while the American author was living in Paris for several months. I watched Midnight in Paris recently that revolved around an American tourist in Paris.

Now, I fully remember not finding Paris all that interesting. I'm not even really pining to return to Paris. I am yearning to return to France, though. I still vividly remember sitting on the balcony of my hotel room in Nice and watching the crowds go by. Well, at 4AM they weren't crowds as much as couples and small groups migrating from bars to their apartments and back. Between 2-3AM there was a man with a guitar just sitting on the sidewalk.

And the architecture. Oh, the architecture. When making my way from the Cannes train station to the beach I wound my way through the tiny streets. Cafes had packed tables outside, party attendees were overflowing onto the cobblestone. It was so idyllic even at 10PM during the city's busiest week of the year. And then, of course, there's the beach.

I so desperately want to live in a small village in Southern France or Northern Italy (or Tuscany). Occasionally a scene pops into my head: I'm wearing a sundress, riding a bicycle with a basket into the town square. I wave at the florist and buy my food from the weekly market. I live in a small cottage with my dog and write some of the best books of my generation. 

I don't understand 'writer's block' in a place like this.