. . . mid-november and most of the leaves have fallen, and there’s a stillness, just before nightfall, and the days are fading, fading, like the quiet before the busy-ness of the holiday season begins, and here, days are filled with romantic wanders about town, along cobblestone streets, secret passageways and stops in antique shops; inadvertent train rides to unknown parts, and the daily searching, searching for the next place to call home for the next months or so; and there are nights amidst herringbone floors and pools of tweed and velvet, yellow roses and sunday markets and the sights and sounds of a new place — this has been what november feels like . . .