. . . France. Summer, 2001. It was a languid, lazy day. We (my chamber choir) had been on tour through rural France for almost two weeks - concerts in Albi, Gramat, Gourdon, Toulouse, St. Felix, and numerous others . . . and I was done. Totally done. We had spent the afternoon touring through Carcassonne, on a rare day when we didn't have a concert to sing, but my mind kept wandering back to my cosy little haven here in San Francisco. As far as I was concerned, we could have driven directly to the Paris Airport. I love my choir. I loved the tour. I loved the concerts. But, I wanted to go home - and be alone . . . lol.
Not long after dinner, we ducked out of the city . . . and headed out the surrounding countryside . . . and waited.
Not long after dinner, we ducked out of the city . . . and headed out the surrounding countryside . . . and waited.
and then . . . .
and then . . . .
It was overwhelming. It was spectacular. It was one of those moments that you can't prepare for. Listening to the entire countryside erupt with cries of joy with each new colour and explosion. I love those kind of surprises.
Happy Bastille Day,
tartanscot
