Finir - v. to finish

I'm sitting in the giant, open eating room of Chez Michel. Azanor is singing in the background, Tequila is curled up one of the two large doors, her paws pushing against the green, wooden shudders. I love the colors of this place, the way the stairs wind upward, the black metal banister inviting to climb each orange, ceramic step, the impressive piece of Mouni's everyone who visits compliments. The front door is open, the antique looking keys dangling from the lot. Sitting in this old-fashioned chair, I can see the twinkling light of billions of stars high above this mountain. Camarat is beautiful. I'm drinking a glass of red wine, eating a slice of tarte tropezian. A moth is frantically trying to find the night air again. But something's not right. The focus of the room is not on its long, mahogany table or the charred white fireplace. It's not on the flow of the room, or the myriad of antiques. The presence of my suitcases cannot be ignored.

There they are, three enormous black and red bags, bulging at the seams. I can't imagine I won't be charged for excess luggage. My laptop bag and bag pack are full, waiting to be carried on. Tequila's cage looms at the bottom of the stairs, giving her a heart attack as well as taking her favorite napping spot.

At the finish of the CD, the house is eerily silence. It’s my last night sleeping here; this place I have come to call home. Like usual, I’m scared shitless. Tequila’s not allowed out; the sanglier are back in full force. I just killed another hairy beast of a spider – seriously, the size of my hand – by throwing a shoe at it from across the room. I’ve certainly adapted to life here…

I love this place.