It is with great exhaustion that I admit I have fallen headfirst down the rabbit hole called the Internet.  I have, for all intensive purposes spent the last 48 hours thinking only about the minute details of pending trip to Europe. Depending on the hour or the minute, I may be flipping channels between a land called England, and a place called France, the two of which I am now so deeply wrapped up in I sometimes mix them up. This apartment for these days, in the wrong country, or this excursion on this day, for the wrong number of people.  I have researched, and calculated myself into a not fun set of restrictive plans for what is supposed to be a dream come true.  Enough.

 I have bought return tickets from France. I know not how we will get officially between France and England mid-trip, and I am not breaking away to take a small unplanned family break to, of all places – another country. We’re driving to Canada for the sole purpose of stamping our passports and to shake my brain free from the twisty set of websites racked up on my to-do list.

It’s the last week of August.  If, for any reason you have questions about ice-skating on the Eiffel Tower, ticket prices to Versailles, the time and cost of watching a pagan ritual at Stonehenge on the Winter Solstice and whether or not one should drive the Cotswolds versus take a train, don’t hesitate to give me a call. I’m sure it will take a bit to shake the marbles out of my mind.