“Moving day”

   Monday marked our first glorious week in the quaintly, bustling yet pastoral, half-timber, medieval town of Tours. It was also moving day to our new air conditioned apartment in advance of expected 100 degree temperatures. It was also laundry day. Living like the locals.

   It was also living like the homeless, as we schlepped across the heart of the old city with our collection of rollaboards, backpacks, grocery bags and clean laundry slung over our shoulders. 

   We settled in, and then went shopping for room wine, which was also close by. (Even closer, when Carol later pointed out the wine shop I had walked past twice, and which was right at the corner from our apartment.)

   The first unexpected surprise was that the apartment was located up four flights of stairs (in Europe the first floor is “0,” so a third floor is actually our fourth). But then we walked inside. The apartment was spacious with a small balcony overlooking the rooftops. There were comfortable stuffed sofas and chairs (with the stuffing leaking out of the 

sitting chair in stark contrast to the photo in Airbnb). But the Moroccan motif, from the blue kitchen tiles to the Tagine and the Moroccan statuary (that Carol remembers her and Mike donating to the San Diego Zoo) stopped Carol in her tracks. And not in a good way.

   “I want out of here by Friday!” She explained.

   But the a/c was a blessing, and I carried none of the baggage that Carol did as far as the decor. It was also a three or four minute walk to the train station, which was helpful inasmuch we were now bugging out of Tours for Orleans for our last days in France.

   We settled in, and then went shopping for room wine, which was also close by. (Even closer, when Carol later pointed out the wine shop I had walked past twice, and which was right at the corner from our apartment.)

After a nice lupper of fish and chips and chicken tenders and chips at L’Universe and a sweet a/c aided nap back at Marrakesh, we headed out for the evening.

   We walked a completely deserted street heading toward the river. It made a wonderful picture of how uncrowded Tours was compared to what we had glimpsed in Paris, and affirmed the wisdom of staying off the main tourist treks. Even at the river’s edge, festooned with carousels and a Ferris wheel in anticipation of Bastille Day on July 14, we were able to secure two comfy sling chairs at a hotel café for a front row view of a Tour sunset.

   Several rosés and many, many pleasant revolutions of the wheel later, we caught the last tram back to our apartment a little after midnight. I uncorked a bottle of room wine, and Carol and I finished off the evening with a glass and a playlist out on our balcony.

   In the morning we couldn’t get the newfangled pod coffee maker to produce a cup of coffee, and we resorted to a jar of instant that was available. Only on the third day did Carol realize it was decaf. Which explained why it had failed to revive her over the previous couple of afternoons.

   Oblivious to the obvious would put us in the fame of mind for the French version of the Minions movie later in the week.