Comfort in Numbers

 There must be a collective noun for middle aged women. A gaggle? A giggle? A coterie? A network? A society? A union?

Regardless, we met up last night. The fun, funny, amazing, inspiring, nutty, sympathetic women I toured around France with met up at on member's lovely suburban home. 

It was fabulous. 

We all brought some food, meaning there was enough to feed a small army for a week. Fruit platters. Salads. Enough cheese to clog our arteries while sending us into an orgasmic coma. Of course there was wine, in particular rose, which we drank with abandon in Sommieres. One of our members had her pot vape.

"Want a puff," she held out her remarkably technical vape towards me.

"I would love to, but not tonight. I'm driving. And I have precious cargo," I replied, pointing at to one of our throng, deep in conversation at the end of the verandah. I'd given her a lift over, I was also dropping her home as she lives up the road. 

"Ah, fair enough."

"Another time. When you're not frazzled and I'm not driving."

"You're on."

I'm sure her stuff is good. But not when I'm driving. Big no no.

We hadn't seen each other since we parted company at Gare de Lyon station in Paris at the end of the tour where we spread across the world like dandelion seeds. I've seen a couple of the group over the last few months at catch ups and sound meditations, and most randomly, at my local train station on the way to work. That really made my day. 

Walking into our host's house, I felt my shoulders dropping as I sighed audibly. 

"Tired, Pand?"

"Big week. Let me transition into group mode. A glass of water and some time in the garden will fix it. "

This group travelled with me for ten days. They know I need some time to regroup from being in a car with one other to a place where eleven other women were standing, talking, eating and drinking. 

"Can I meet Freddy?" I asked my host. 

Freddy is her seventeen-year-old three-legged dog. Of course, I had to meet Freddy. I'd heard so much about him in France. Freddy had put himself to bed. It's possible he wasn't registering the noise. He's a sweetie.

And we talked, and laughed and ate and drank in the way that only middle-aged women can do. 

The reason we came together as Jess, our tour leader who lives in France, is over in Australia for a few weeks. It was wonderful to see her. 

"So, Pand, when are you moving to Paris?"

Oh, I wish.

"You know you belong over there. Your face lights up when you speak French." She was being earnest. 

"I know."

"And you become more animated, and you seem really happy."

"I know." 

"But not this year."

"I'm contracted out until the end of the year anyway."

"You should come next year. Paris will be nuts this year with the Olympics. But next year, you should find yourself a portable job. Get a house or pet sitting job and come over for three months and live a bit. Get fluent. You're not too far away from it. Go and be where you thrive."

It's a nice thought. A good thought. Something to strive for. Something I feel I would love on a cellular level. 

I love these people. I love that they are my tribe. 

And after more eating and talking and singing the classics with my friends, I went home, replete. 

Onwards to more adventures I say. This was one of the best nights I've had since leaving Europe. 

These women taught be that there is a comfort in numbers only found when you travel together. 

Today's song: