It’s the fourth Thursday in November. In France, this means that you’ve had exactly one week to shake your head at the ingenuousness of going ape-shit over rather inferior young wine. In the USA, you’re hours away from regretting time spent with your extended kin as you celebrate the first colonial steps in aboriginal culture destruction.
But I digress. Consider the major family-oriented holidays. Everyone, for a few short hours, basks in the glow of having friends and family gathered round. Sure, two of your aunts haven’t talked to each other since the battle of the heirloom salt seller in 1978, and your hygenically challenged cousin insists on kissing everyone sloppily, but it’s really not important – they are family, and a couple of times a year, they can do no wrong. One of the worst things about living abroad, and alone, is watching people happily anticipating just such circumstances, knowing all you have to look forward to is an empty apartment and some crap TV. I know, I’ve been there a couple of times over the last decade.
But I’ve been even more fortunate over those years: for reasons best known to themselves, a large number of people have adopted me for such events, insisting I share their family cheer at Christmas, Easter, and now Thanksgiving. And for that, I truly am thankful. So, K&K, P&L, N, J, G, Y, S, M&M-P, and BL, thank you. For memories, and kindness I probably didn’t deserve.