I'm sitting at the dining room table looking out at a sunny, tree-lined (dry) creek and a squirrel or two and thinking that in a day and a half I'll be sitting in Paris looking out at my other workspot view, which is the buttresses on the back side of a behemoth of a church. Instead of squirrels, pigeons, some of whom will probably have nested on the little porch off the kitchen, at once time a maid's repository of brooms and mops and burnt pots and pans (the burnt pots and pans, that's me, but it's probably in Zola too). Instead of cyclists, including families with children in those sorts of rickshaws they attach to their bikes for kids too small to have bikes of their own, and joggers, city life, shoppers, sweepers, garbage men whose den is across the street down some stairs in the sidewalk--under the church, in fact. Change is good, but damned if I like it. Inertia feels more natural.