Of course, with me not having an kind of Internet connection at home which does not involve some kind of savage and unreliable piggy-backing, and me feeling a wee bit tired of the blogosphere once I hit home everyday after work, luck and motivation were not on my blogging side for months.

I admit to still feeling a bit shaky at the thought of resuming my private blogging. So.

Although work has been very stressful for the last few months (that, dear friends, is an understatement), M. and I have nevertheless managed to enjoy a wonderful week in Spain, both in Isla Cristina and Sevilla.

I was born in Sevilla and although I lived there for 0 to 2 years old (and later had the chance to visit Cordoba, Malaga and Granada while in high school) I had never actually visited Sevilla ever since my mom and I flew back to France as I learning my first words.

Not much can be said about Isla Cristina: it is an odd Spanish-touristy town bordering on Portugual with nice beaches but little else to see except if you dig those huge project management housing beach sites which are progressively disfiguring the coasts of Europe. But Sevilla was another bargain and as my dad has put it, it might just be the best city in Europe if one can cope with the 35-38+ degrees which pushed me into a catatonic state for most of our stay.

Upom arrival M. and I asked ourselves the same question: “Why do we live in London again?”. I for one couldn’t explain why we have been living in the ugly English city for so long when confronted with Sevilla’s many charms: excellent food, cheap prices, nice people, brilliant music, a bit more soul than one can find in big capitals, as well as one-Euro Tinto de Verano (I am not even mentioning to sangria, the fact that pigeons did not exist, the marvelous parks and gardens, and a sense of fashion which suits my tastes better than those neo-rave London kids).

Flying in I wondered if I could remember any of those places - after all, I had seen those parks and houses many times as a baby, so maybe their souvenirs would be buried in my memory. Alas, I did not have such Proustian moments, but does no regret any of it nonetheless. In fact, I will come back there if I can.

All that being said, dear blog, it’s good to be back (online, at least). Now is the time for dinner and a glass of wine.