Margaritaville

This week has been a blur. I see sand all over the floor of the bathtub and some mangled, wet swimsuits thrown into a corner and I'm vaguely aware that we've been to the beach. The kids are brown and Rosie has taken to cleaning out her digestive system by taking the "Sand Diet" to heart.

It's beautiful here.

We've been eating and drinking and eating and laughing and drinking and eating some more until thunderstorms roll in and we find the need to drink a little something else and just sit on the decks and watch the lightening as it rolls out to sea.

It's not at all like home. It's louder, newer, and in English all the time.

The tribe has learned how to boogie board and jump the waves. They've decided Speedo swimsuits are for Europeans, pizza is awesome for breakfast and cousins can be just as painful as siblings. They can now swim across the pool and jump in without fear. They can't remember the boulangerie and they point blank refuse to speak in French.

I'm with my people and laughing as Hubster tries to understand Americans, seafood, and peanut butter creme pie.

It's good. I'm getting my fill and starting to be homesick. Four more days. Four more days.