Three years ago I was living in Fitou in France during a period of decompression and introspection. The preceding autumn had been just the opposite.
I will not rehash the story of the events of Good Friday 2013 because I don’t think I can add anything new. (If you want to be brought up to speed, click here.)
It is, however, worth saying yet again how fond my memory is of that day. I had watched the Procession de la Sanch in Perpignan, with its solemn parade of the hooded faithful.
I enjoyed a plate of lamb that has inhabited my dreams often.
And I met my Norwegians.
Those kids arrived in my life at the perfect moment and I adore them all to this day. We are friends on Facebook, and some of us interact on Snapchat now and then. We may never lay eyes on each other again, my Norwegians and I—I hope it isn’t the case but reality is reality—but I can’t forget them or lose my love for them and that Good Friday.