I'm back here in my favorite place in the world, a beach house outside of St. Tropez in a little medieval village called Ramatuelle. I first came here on my honeymoon and have been coming back for the past thirteen or so years. The place I rent, old furniture, sagging beds propped up by slabs of wood, is still my favorite house ever, my daughter's too. She talks about it all year long. The house, and the vanilla yogurt you get in France. it's the peaches that kill me, all the fruit, really. You sink in your teeth and get a little bit drunk.

The house has held so many different permutations of my family. First my then wife and I and then I invited down a few couples, two of whom got married on the terrace the next summer. I remember sitting on that terrace one summer with Erika, my ex, and our friend Stacy. They were craving pot and we had none, just some herbs de provence, which they sell everywhere around here as souvenirs. It's a mix of oregano, basil and thyme, I think. I tried to convince them that it would have no effect on them but they smoked it anyway, a few puffs, at least and swore to the rest of us that they felt something. We were one big rolling party when we were single and then when Ava came the party continued. Ava had her first ice cream here, right before her second birthday. I insisted on chocolate for her first though seven years later she rarely orders it.

This year it's just Ava, Chet and myself in this big old house overlooking the Mediterranean. I can barely afford it but I don't really drink, don't spend money on anything really during the rest of the year. We three had ice cream today in the same place where Ava had her first and then I worked a bit and then we walked down to the beach at six and swam and played paddle ball and the kids made moats till 7:30. Only then was it getting a little chilly, but still bright out. We changed and drove up into the village for dinner with Caroline and two nice Americans, one named Trey, oddly enough. After the rabbit we finished off the meal with raspberries topped with fromage blanc and a dusting of sugar. It was better than sex.

You'd think I could die happy after a day like that but what weighs on me, stupidly, arrogantly, is that the HuffingtonPost I wrote till two last night and drove into town to post at the internet cafe barely registered on the post and has already disappeared. I wonder sometimes how hard my brain has to try to look past all the miracles in my life to dwell on the what did not go one-hundred percent my way?