I’ve been under the weather recently and have been spending quite a lot of time lying around, alternately  sleeping and reading. I most recently started reading  Tender is the Night,  by  F. Scott Fitzgerald. The first paragraph has stuck with me for days now, lacing its way through my thoughts and dreams.

On the pleasant shore of the French Riviera, about half way between Marseilles and the Italian border, stands a large, proud, rose-colored hotel. Deferential palms cool its flushed facade, and before it stretches a short dazzling beach. Lately it has become a summer resort of notable and fashionable people; a decade ago it was deserted after its English clientele went north in April. Now, many bungalows cluster near it, but when this story begins only the cupolas of a dozen old villas rotted like water lilies among the massed pines between Gausse’s Hotel des Etrangers and Cannes, five miles away.

Happy daydreaming on this gorgeous May Day.