Yesterday I spent the whole day writing, to the exclusion of pretty much everything else (just ask my poor neglected wife). Late in the afternoon an email came in from a Spanish friend commenting that it was my “National Day,” and I had no idea what she was talking about.
Today I opened my laptop and noticed that the date was July 5.
“Hey, it’s the start of the Tour de France!” I said, and happily settled down to watch gorgeous footage of Yorkshire. (The Red Arrows flying in formation over Harewood House is now one of my favorite moments of a Grand Départ.)
After the stage ended and Mark Cavendish went down in a nasty crash that made us cringe to watch it (seriously, ow), I checked various news sites to see if anyone knew the extent of his injury, which sure looked like a broken collarbone to me. And that’s when I started seeing photos of fireworks and remembered that yesterday was Independence Day back home. Oh, that national day! Wow, totally forgot.
I used to be painfully aware of every holiday that I was missing. Now I’m so detached that even when a friend comments on a US holiday, I don’t make the connection. I wonder if there’s a name for that phase of expatriation. Going native?
Anyway, tomorrow the Tour starts in York, and on Monday it’s from Cambridge to London. Can’t wait.