The rain hasn't let up since I carried my weary ass off the train last night.
It's been falling in thick, cold sheets and the trees not five feet from my window are sad green smudges, gloomily appropriate to the mood en g�n�ral.
You'd think, that I'd be good at saying goodbye by now.
I've done it so many times, since ever.
Goodbye to the chickens we had on our farm that I fed every morning, before watching my grandfather slaughter them one day at a time for dinner.
Goodbye to the farm and Rex and Boxer, when we left it and them for the great concrete wilds of Canada, and Montreal.
Goodbye to my other grandfather, the only one who loved me unconditionally, standing over his coffin and pushing against his shoulder, angry at him, so angry for leaving me, alone in the world, at ten years old.
Summer camp and elementary school goodbyes were easy, I never saw them go by, sitting in the corner of the asphalt yard that they played basketball in, nose buried deep in a book just like every other day. I had no one to say goodbye to.
Goodbye to my budgie when my sister inadvertently crushed his head with her bedroom door, my only long-term friend for ten years of adolescence.
Goodbye to Kim, Brian, Adam, AIDS and violence victims. So many of them. Only I haven't really said goodbye to Kim yet. It's been ten years since I watched her eyes close on the sky and I still dream about her throwing her head back and laughing at the jungle.
Goodbye to so many angry faces, knowing they would never make it off the street. Those goodbyes were easy, back when my heart stayed closed.
Goodbye to my family when I left them behind for five years. Goodbye to the grandfather who hasn't spoken a word to me since then.
Goodbye to the children, my uncles', my friends', my own childhood.
Goodbye to the gang of us in Israel, knowing we'd never see each other again, all those moments between us suddenly turning to heroic tales in the light of our separation.
Goodbye to Lyon, and again, some of the most meaningful friendships I'd ever made. Tears, gifts, heart-rending, getting so drunk on the plane so that I couldn't cry anymore.
Goodbye to Grenoble, London, Madrid, Merseburg, Waterloo, Cornwall and my virginity, goodbye to New Orleans and Orlando and the people and moments and dreams in all of them, so few of them places and dreams and people that I will ever see again.
Goodbye to Leipzig, Hamburg, Frankfurt, Geneva, Brussels, Antwerp, Marseilles, Nice, Cannes, Antibes, New York, Atlanta, Sutton, Philadelphia, Toronto, Vancouver, Whistler village, Vannes, Bretagne, Strasbourg, Normandie, Metz, Mexico, Columbia, Prague, and on, and on...
Goodbye every time I leave Montreal, the sense of loss magnified each time.
Last hugs, last kisses, last face-to-face promises and admonitions of love, Eric and Clayton and David and Steven and John and Val and so many other people that I haven't learned to share those words with yet.
It's raining in Limoges, and I ran from my hotel to the bus stop, already beginning my goodbyes.
Brushing my hand along the smooth, wet cheeks of stone, rubbing my feet against the cobbles that are the backbone of this village.
Goodbye rolling hills and repertoire theatre, goodbye tiny shops and hand-painted porcelain and foot-bridge and cathedral and thatched houses.
Goodbye to some of the greatest people I've ever worked and laughed with.
Today began with the planning of how to wrap up this project. I've got six days left, today until Friday and Wednesday until Friday next week.
I'm already saying goodbye, the town too small to be a priority to return to next time I go wandering.
Brussels yes, for Jean-Michel and Marie-Nat, Marseilles for Pierre, Antibes for my cousins, Hamburg for the hacker troupe and proper german sushi.
But Limoges? It was chance that brought me here, glorious fortune, and such spells are not often woven twice.
Goodbye Limoges and your belltowers and clocktowers and perpetual rain.
It is the rain stinging my cheeks when I walk your narrow shoulders, not my tears. I am not so small and emotional to cry over streets and spires.