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  • Let me tell you about my Sundays, as they once were.

    The scene of action was the French Riviera, la Côte d'Azure, and the actors were you and I. The scene was ours, as was life and the whole world around us. We didn't need much more than that little, black Ford. And the gps – Navman.

    Sunday was the day for our acting, our own theatre. Only you and me. Plus the Ford and his Navman. We performed well without an audience, without a script. We drove for miles and played our dialogue. Talked about everything. Left nothing unsaid. Lived right there. Existed simply then. The two of us. We enjoyed artwork. We learned a new language. We were amazed by the scenery of nature. We tickled our tastebuds. We drowned in each other. Left our hearts dancing beyond all obstacles. Listened, searched, wished and dreamed. We knew our Sundays. Les dimanches étaient à nous.

    Our time ran out and our Sundays came to an end. But in our calendars, the Sundays live on. Not as they once did, but with a new scenery. Over here, over there, on the French Riviera and everywhere in the world.

    It's not bad. Simply different. And we should still be lucky for every single Sunday we get the chance to experience.
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