We went to see Midnight in Paris last night. Because of the choring schedule, we went to the 8:30 p.m. show and there weren’t many other folks there. It was a great little movie, made even more fun by the fact that I’ve been reading The Paris Wife, followed by The Greater Journey and bookended with Ernest Hemingway’s very own A Moveable Feast. I’ve been longing to find my own artists’ community, and if you’ll believe the literature, the only place to do that is in Europe.
It was pitch black when we got home and we followed a path from the gate to the garden. Just north of the garden we were treated to a scene from our very own Midnight in the Midwest. The fireflies were intense. It was surreal and spectacular.
Who needs the city of lights.
Waiting for Thoreau 
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