PERSONAL

Shoelaces double-knotted, pigtails tucked into windbreaker hoods, the girls would hop down the porch steps of our Little House by the Highway and reach for my hands.

Big Sis left.  Little Sis right.

I'd shorten my stride to match their steps, and lead them through the backyard - past the fire station, hardware store, and train stop.  Looking both ways, we'd cross the street, pull on the heavy door handle at Lovey's bakery, and step out of early morning sunshine into early morning magic.

Shelves, baskets and counter-tops stacked from ceiling to floor with croissants, pastries, muffins, and luscious loaves of bread still warm enough to melt butter.

You've experienced it, dear Reader.  The aroma of freshly baked everything.

We'd hand over our quarters, then leave the bakery bustle to settle on a bench, nibble sweet rolls, and watch our little town hustle.

Little Sis was never one to sit and chat. Roll half consumed and fingers sticky, she’d wiggle wildly, scooting to the edge of the bench until the soles of her plaid sneakers dangled far over the seat.

She couldn't wait to touch pavement again.

Sidewalks, roads, paths were meant for toddling.  And exploring. (Exploddling? Toddloring?)

Quietly, Big Sis would tuck Goodnight Moon Bunny under her elbow, grasp Little Sis's knee with one hand, and pull my jacket zipper with the other. "Wait, Nanny," she'd whisper, holding on until I stopped chatting with whomever and grabbed the wiggler.  

With a lift toward blue sky, and an arcing (wheeeee!) dip to earth, the sisters rediscovered their footing.

And another Spring adventure would begin.

From sweet mornings to lazy afternoons, Time tiptoed - utterly unconcerned with passing.

Unhurried, content, I never imagined it would race through the decade and a half that followed. 

Time compensated for losing itself.

FACT: Big Sis and Little Sis now share stories - gossip and advice  - from computer screens in dorm rooms and libraries. They plan adventures from Little College in the Mid West to Big College in the East.

Adventures with school and study abroad programs that will take them to cities and countries continents away. All by their lonesomes they'll be; no Sister, Dad, Brothers, Dogs.

Or Mom.

NOVEL IDEA: (This is a new Quing concept, dear Reader, by which I am referring to an innovative thought, rather than a new idea for a novel I may or may not write.)

NOVEL IDEA:  Take your child to visit a foreign country or city that is three zillion miles (or dollars) away from home before she becomes a resident. The child (mom) will thus become familiar with the language, culture, transportation, as well as the whereabouts of the police station, hospital, and airport.

FACT: This particular Novel Idea has turned out to be better in theory than in practice. Because no sane person could ever imagine how much time it takes to find an acceptable place to eat, bathe, and sleep in a foreign country.  

Websites and photos. Reviews and statistics. Emails and correspondence. Occupancy calendars that lie.  Spend a few weeks researching foreign flats, apartments, houses, condos - on a laptop, dear Reader -  and it becomes evident why God made hotels. And travel agents.

Because too much information leads to too much second guessing: Is what I view/read/pay for authentic? Honest? Real?!

FACT: Our Hyper-Connected, Click & Peer into Strangers' Houses & Lives World can make even Great Rulers feel Disconnected. Distrusting. Disheartened.

"It's a business transaction," Husband says after deleting 621 emails titled: Maybe this one?  "Just pick a place in the town where you want to stay and be done with it."

PAUSE.  Remember that line in You've Got Mail when Tom Hanks tells Meg Ryan, "It was business. It wasn't personal?" Meg objects to Tom's comment saying something like, "It was personal to me. Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal."

I wish I wrote that line.

Because, by definition, every interaction we have with another being is personal. Unless you're hanging with your puppy (in which case your interaction is Perppy. Or Pupponal.)

Seriously. Weeks viewing hundreds of rentals, photos, maps and emails filled with details and information, but utterly devoid of personality left me contemplating catchy taglines for billboards and tattoos: Be Personal, People! 

Truth is, I was just about to trade 'authentic living experience' for 'hotel chain' when I received two emails- and an epiphany.  

EMAIL #1:  Flat Owner  - who for weeks only corresponded with me - takes a moment to write to Husband who is not making the trip: "Payment received. Be assured that Maria and your 2 daughters will be well treated, enjoy both Paris and the flat! Best, Benoit"

EMAIL # 2:  Home Owner - responding to my question about late night noise, writes:  The bedroom upstairs opens on to the jardin public, with a view of the stage of the antique theatre and the spire of Saint Trophime (12th century). Down stairs the red room (guest bedroom) has one window opening on to the garden, the other on to the narrow little street (Porte de Laure) that runs to the roman arena 150 yards away. Cars pass by regularly. At night they are more rare. Except at the feria, no one has ever complained of noise. It's pretty calm. Annie Trinquesse downstairs runs the little Provencal fabric store. She sits in there all day at her sewing machine making tablecloths and aprons. She is a lovely person (sort of the mayor of the quartier, if you see what I mean) very kind to our visitors, eager to show you her wares...

EPIPHANY: All that time I was searching for a house, I was actually hoping to find a home.

Someplace personal.

Indeed, a couple of business transactions became personal, dear Reader, and life became unexpectedly delightful. A few words, gestures, and simple kindnesses from strangers made me feel connected. Welcomed. Excited. 

It will be a few months before Big Sis, Little Sis and I step off an international flight onto the pavement of a foreign city.

We'll find plenty of sidewalks, roads, and paths meant for exploring.

Taste croissants, pastries, luscious loaves of bread, and fromage that make us forget all about butter.

We'll see art masterpieces, and hike through the landscapes that inspired them.

Window shop for the latest fashions, and stroll through markets full of fresh flowers, fish, and fruit.

We'll step across Roman ruins, and around townsfolk on the narrow Porte de Laure.

We may even pick a few Provencal patterns to purchase from Annie Trinquesse.

And at the end of each day, Big Sis, Little Sis, and I will retreat to our home away from home, to share stories, gossip, advice, wine.

Dear Time, kindly tiptoe.

QUING HEREBY DECREES:  By any standard, the BPP (beep) Rule Rules! Be Personal, People!