Oh, to have re-embraced my books in time for fall is a small little piece of banana creme pie every single night. I even read yesterday during the afternoon while a certain little person was napping. I love to read! (But have a small problem with falling asleep quickly while reading. Mommy sleep.)
I just finished a really well-done non-fiction narrative (probably my very favorite type of writing) by Erik Larson called In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin. I loved another of his books, the Devil in the White City, which centered around development of the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago and a serial killer. I was in Chicago twice while reading that book back in… say, 
2005 (I think), and became so obsessed with visiting the few artifacts left from that Fair.
Anyway, of course, now I want to visit Berlin and do the same. Not anytime soon. European travel is out for us until the little girl can at least remember it.
I’ll settle for a couch and a new book.
It’s the worst coming off a solid reading experience with no back up or thought about what’s next. I sorta kinda might maybe think about another European adventure, but few write with the same commitment as Larson. I prefer non-fiction, but do love to read poetry and short stories. I’m not much of a novel freak. I’ll read them, yes, but I suppose I’m a journalist at heart and treasure the little *true* stories and tales and locations and bits of sometimes depressing reality. (Hm, perhaps this also feeds my skeptical nature.)
So… Paris? Yes? Perhaps? Preferred destination and city like no other? David McCullough? Just wrote a new book on Americans in Paris… I think yes.
