Southern California is wild about palm trees.
These are at the end of the alley. I'm sure there are those who have named them.
One time two palm trees were added. Someone complained. They intruded in on their view. So, the two trees were removed forthwith. I do hope other neighbors hadn't named them yet.
I got here without any problem. Air France pilots did pilot my plane. But the flight across the hall at Gate 58, going to Moscow had a bit of a problem locating a pilot who felt like flying to Moscow in the middle of a strike, and November too.
Eventually the waiting crowd was notified that a pilot had been found, but it was uncertain as to when he'd get to the airport. The waiting crowd were thanked for their patience--
I don't know why that phrase doesn't incite riot each and every time it's used.
Meanwhile, my plane, having the good sense to be a flight to sunny (albeit fire-ridden) Los Angeles boarded without incident--
And then I was here.
Home.
I am rushing to my hairdresser. Six and a half weeks has wreaked havoc.
I'm home. A week ago I was freezing at the Notre Dame.
I'm home, and the cats are happy...but only after I had to wheedle my way back into their favor.
And so, twas a wonderful wonderful interlude. Paris is a dream.
Life goes on. And now I'm home--
I can be read at my regular blog, which will include more of my life in Southern California than it has in the past.
Pearls and Amber The Wit is on the Wall
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