sunday afternoon

my new hobby. walking the solace streets of small dusty villages. we stopped for drinks at a small town called la grasse. off the beaten touristy tracks. hidden away between hills cliffs and vineyards. stunning little cobble stone village. a river runs through it. i had classical music on my ipod while pacing myself through its bumpy and dusty streets. the smell of local cuisine fills the air and distant folk music. an accordion. a local walks by. a man with a big belly and the stench of last nights rose fills the aura around him. he is sweaty and on his way for another bottle i guess. the winds of the languedoc sweeps around every corner and brings a certain chill to yet another perfect day in the south of france. i turn the corner. down another gravel path only to be connected to another square. more stinky men. more dust. more wine. the dust of boules spashing out of the dust as the iron boule batters the gravel with its weight. i cross the dusty square and down another alley. i stare at the funny shaped door at the bottom of the alley. a lady hangs out form a window and mumbles some french. i think she asked whether i was lost. lost i was. but not physically. i look around to see the beautiful old lady. flowers all over the front of her house. the architecture grips me. binds me. amazing. strong and ancient buildings. rough and rugged. unfinished and rustic. the nostalgia surrounds me all of a sudden. the euphoria of being here is unimaginable. yet so simple. its only dust. its only stones. its just another river. no. it had all the components for a perfect sunday afternoon. peace. quite. tranquillity. i stopped. i sat down. i took it all in.