being a tourist

In Paris it is easier to blend in a little, but now we are in the smallest of towns. And we wander through these twisty streets in a gaggle, oohing and ahhing to ourselves, taking pictures of these little doorways and blue painted shutters. It feels crazy to be such an outsider of a place. It's like it might as well be a disneyland village. Everything is as cute and perfect as it should be in a small provencial village.
But regardless, I love it here. There is a church bell that rings on the hour and on the half an hour, and there is just so much beautiful stone work everywhere. and the cats...they just sit on these little ledges meowing at you. I haven't figured out yet what the french say to the cats. I make a clicking sound to them, like the one I make for basil, but they ignore me. There must be another call. But last night when we came back, a cute little thing was sleeping on my bed. It dashed off out the window, but the foot of my bed was warm and I tried to pretend it was Basil.
I keep trying to wander off on my own, but so far it is impossible. I am hoping here I will be able to sneak some time to sit in the square, eat apples and write letters for a little while.
Last night at dinner I was the only link to our young waiter. It was funny and he had enough patience to put up with us. We kept giving each other the "I don't know..?!" look, for my family, for each others slow versions of our respective languages, and for my vegetarianism in a seafood village. no fruit de la mer, no poisson, and a shrug of apology from me.
Today we go to a vineyard at 9 am. So much drinking.....