Summer in Ohio is sticky, heavy. The sky hangs low and sulking clouds blanket the sky. Somewhere down the road, a truck starts, grumbles, crunches down the gravel driveway and then wails down into Sonnenburg valley. A train whistles down at the station, and winds its way through the settling fog after the evening’s rain. The roads were steaming at sunset. The moon is nearly full tonight, but silvery clouds tease in front of the moon’s cratered face, and the night is still and dark.
I’m lonely, I think. Small towns are funny like that—although the waitresses down at the Kidron Town and Country store know my order even before I’ve slipped onto the bar stool, and the police officers know me by name and wave as I speed past, and the local paper publishes write-ups about my adventures abroad, I feel distant, alone. My return home causes a stir. I can see it rippling through concerned faces as neighbors, or teachers, or old friends ask with consternation: “Are ya thinking ‘bout moving over there to Paris for good?” (Paris, in the opinion of small town America, is synonymous to the entire country of France, by the way.)
I myself was a relatively compliant small town American, in my day. I marched in the marching band and thus faithfully attended four solid years of high school football games, and I knew all the words to the fight song. I sang in the choir and sat second chair in the flute section in concert band and I held roles in the spring musicals. I destroyed my body (with all the school spirit in the world) in my 11.5 months a year of training for cross-country, and more importantly, for pole vault. I spoke kindly and even fondly of Dalton High School in my valedictorian speech, and I threw my graduation cap with cheers and tears after a heartfelt singing of the alma mater with my classmates and peers. But I was not happy.
In France, in 2009, I was riding in the backseat of my friend Levy’s car. I was squashed in between Katie and Shawna, two of my best American friends, and Laurent and Levy were up front, singing to the radio and flying down the road. We were on our way to Apt, where were going to spend the night before heading to Mediterranean the next day for an afternoon at the beach. As we wound through Les Alpilles mountains, the sun was setting, and I found myself suddenly smiling, for absolutely no reason. The grin felt foreign on my face. With a start, I realized that I was content, happy even. I had forgotten what it felt like.
I tell this story often. It’s a bit silly, perhaps even sappy, but it’s the only way I have to explain what it’s like to cross that Atlantic Ocean and arrive in a place that inexplicably feels like home. After years of depression, anxiety, panic attacks, anger, bitterness, and the lethargic but encumbering weight of dysthymia, I found myself smiling in the backseat of a car, zooming across a country bathed in the colors of a Cezanne painting. It’s a powerful and singular sensation.
The night before I left the de Lannoy house, Constance wept and wept and wept. She clung onto my waist and gripped my fingers and trembled. At 6:50 the next morning, after an estimated 2 hours of fitful sleep, Eric and Godefoy stood sniffling on the platform as my train screeched and puffed and whisked me away. Eric had made Godefoy, his best friend from childhood, accompany him to the train station because he wasn’t sure he would be able to drive home alone without his beloved Rachel, l’américaine adorable.
On the train, I shamelessly wept. As the world was waking up, I was traveling backwards, facing south while the train swept me north. I watched the sun rise over Mont Ventoux, but as we hurtled past, the mountain itself shrunk into the horizon. Distance melted the mightiest peak. Speed strung landscape after landscape onto a moving reel to a soundtrack of grinding wheels. I wanted to sleep, to let the train cradle me into a slumber of homesick exhaustion, but I was afraid to close my eyes, to let the countryside slip through my fingers while I selfishly slept.
I have fallen in love with a country, like one falls in love with a man or a woman. I want to feel the curves of her mountains beneath my palms, I want to nestle my nose in her waving tresses of lavender, I want to rest my head in the bosom of her fragrant earth. My heart aches for the gentle caresses of her salty, Mediterranean shores, and for the sweet tongue of her language, dripping in honey and romance. She is a feisty lover—when she is angry, the Mistral shrieks outside of windows and slams shutters and shatters glass. But eventually she’ll blow herself out, and smug and satisfied, she’ll settle back into her complacent calm. Her hot summer days melt in golden hues into sultry nights, and to a symphony of cicadas, I allow myself to be seduced.
It’s been cloudy in Ohio since my return, and uncharacteristically chilly, although the stifling humidity hasn’t lifted despite the mild temperatures. Not much has changed here. My room was how I left it, although the posters are a bit more faded and my bookshelf sags a bit more under the weight of its dusty books. My parents have been doing their best to make me feel comfortable and at home; they’ll let me talk when I need to, and they’ll let me sit in silence and stare at the cornfield in our backyard when I need to. We had wine with dinner tonight—a somewhat fruity chardonnay from the Languedoc-Roussillon region that had been bottled in California and put in the “French wine” section at the supermarket. My mom let me by Brie from the specialty foods aisle at the grocery store yesterday, although I was disappointed by it. It was bland. In an attempt to emulate my morning coffee in France, I ordered a double espresso at a coffee shop a few days ago. When the barista tried to put it in a Styrofoam cup, I loudly protested and refused to accept it until a more suitable cup had been found. French wine is not bottled in California, Brie is anything but bland, and espresso certainly does not belong in a Styrofoam cup, goddamnit.
I’ve been trying to make the most of my loneliness in Ohio before I’m cast back into the roaring river of academia and swept away by my studies. I am appreciative of the fact that for dinner, I can go out to my garden and pick a zucchini, some tomatoes, and a pepper or two, and stop by the produce stand by the Dalton Dariette to buy a melon from an Amish neighbor named Henry. It’s comforting to know that my eggs come from my neighbor Glen’s chickens, and that my sweet corn is of none other than the Witmer variety. Under the full moon last night, Jared and I climbed to the top of the Witmer silo and sat and watched the clouds dance in front of the moon, and looked out over the farm where we’ve both spent so many summers picking corn. Tonight, as I write, I can hear the cowbells down from the Neuenschwander’s pastures and sounds of crickets and owls fill the dark void outside my window.
I come from a special place, I must admit. The valley in the morning, when rolling clouds of heavy fog lumber across Sugar Creek and the dawn light glistens on dewy cattails, truly is beautiful. However, nestled in my sheets that smell like clover from having been hung out on the line to dry, I’m still not at home. The Atlantic Ocean bellows between.
One day, I’ll go back. Et jusqu’à là, au revoir.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow
5 août 2010 jeudi
In two weeks, I’ll be back on a plane, flying out of Paris on August 19th to return, once again, to the land where I was born. Instead of flying into the dawn over Paris, as upon my arrival two months ago in France, I’ll be flying into the sunset over Cleveland. It’s just not quite the same.
At the breakfast table this morning, I exclaimed with disbelief: “Tomorrow’s FRIDAY?” Constance laughed at me a bit. “But, yesterday was Monday, I swear.” Time goes by without my consent, it slips through my open fingers, it escapes my desperate grasp. Last night, I said goodbye for God knows how long to my friend Thomas, who saved me from destitute loneliness in the month of July. We stood face to face in the parking lot, neither willing to say the word, to articulate “goodbye,” to turn away, to return home alone.
I begin my preliminary mourning now.
***
I’ll miss the coffee, or espresso, rather—strong, dark, necessarily powerful—with one pure cane sugar cube and served with a tiny café spoon to eat the foam off of the top. And my four-o-clock coffee break, with a Speculoos dipping cookie, to caffeinate myself enough to make it through the rest of the day.
I’ll miss mornings when I wake up before the children, when the air is still cool and the house is refreshingly quiet. And likewise, mornings when Eric wakes up even before me to go to the bakery, and brings back fresh pain au chocolat and croissants for breakfast. And my daily petit déjeuner of croustillants choco (granola bits with dark chocolate chips) and a fresh nectarine (organic of course, since that’s how the de Lannoys rock it).
I’ll miss the cicadas—those obnoxious insects that fill my ears with incessant ringing until the racket tips me to the point of insanity . . . but without them, when a storm approaches and the cicadas fall suddenly silent, the air feels void, lonely. And the eerie whisper of the Mistral, telling secrets to the treetops.
I’ll miss Courgette, my fickle Jeep, and the adventures we take in French traffic, zipping through roundabouts and navigating France’s horrifically marked streets. And the grumble of her engine, and the trembling of the iron pedals and floor boards under my feet. And the whip of wind in my face as we zoom down the road.
I’ll miss the pool, and the sudden silence that gushes into my ears when I plunge in the pool. And the instant relief of cool water after a long, sticky run in the evening.
I’ll miss Eric’s favorite Côtes du Rhône rosé served with dinner, and Activia Nature, and chocolat liégois (or café liégois, if Cosette buys the wrong flavor), and brie and chèvre and conté cheese, and double caramel Mini Magnum ice cream treats that threaten to destroy any moderate diet. And fresh melon and apricots, at the peak of perfection. And the utter importance of dessert in general in this country.
I’ll miss Montaine’s toothless smile, genuine though infantile, and her outstretched arms, begging to be held after a long afternoon nap. And the gentle pressure of her tiny, blonde head on my shoulder as she falls asleep in my arms.
I’ll miss Rodrigue’s begging, beautiful, blue eyes as he looks up at me, tugging at my fingers, asking if we can play Uno. And the quiet satisfaction it gives me when he asks to help to set the table, declaring that he’ll bring the cups if I take the plates.
I’ll miss Gauthier’s laugh, and the adorable grimaces he makes when he struggles over the conjugation of an irregular verb in our daily French grammar lessons. And the calm, encouraging voice he uses when he plays with Rodrigue, patient with his little brother’s childish games in a way unlike any of his siblings.
I’ll miss Constance’s hugs in the morning, and the sad, pleading voice she uses when she learns that I’ll be going out for the evening. And her genuine excitement when I let her help plan family activities, or ask for her help to bake bread or set up scavenger hunts.
I’ll miss Alban’s sometimes ditzy demeanor, and his glorious moments of realization when he figures out a new technique to do a front flip or volleyball serve. And his questions, those silly, half-baked, whimsical inquiries that pop up in his mind, sometimes insightful, sometimes not, but amusing nonetheless.
I’ll miss cooking with Cosette, and her patient explanations of how to make ratatouille, mashed potatoes, pommes de terre sautés, mustard vinaigrette, fillet mignon, escalops pannés, and anything else to fill the little hungry bellies of the de Lannoys, young and old. And the conversations we have while peeling zucchini or chopping potatoes—anything from family matters to political drama, and everything in between.
I’ll miss Sylvaine’s soft voice, and her warm greeting every morning and every evening when she comes home from work. And Eric’s well meaning teasing, and his daily offering of un petit verre de rosé to cap off a long day of Uno, pool games, trampoline flips, dishes, and games with his children.
I’ll miss family runs in Montfavet, winding through quaint residential neighborhoods—Alban next to me, Rodrigue racing ahead on his bike, Constance in stride on her roller blades, and Gauthier keeping up a steady pace behind. And the glorious exhaustion that overcomes the children afterwards, affording me some much-needed tranquility.
I’ll miss chats with Sylvaine, when she takes me into confidence about her own childhood, and about her doubts and worries and fears and aspirations for her own children. And the French vocabulary lessons she gives me, always patient, never reproachful for mispronunciation or grammar slip-ups.
I’ll miss my rare moments of solitude, when I take a picnic and a book and watch the sunset over the Rhône. And the color of Avignon at night—a liquid gold luminescence that teases down empty streets but never quite makes it to the dark corners of the alleys.
I already miss le Festival d’Avignon, spilling out of over 100 theaters and into the streets, with costumed players parading the streets as a animated advertisement for their theater production. And street performers, from live statues, to hip hop artists, to folk bands, to DJs, to magicians, to traditional dancers. And the atmosphere that ensues—lively, surreal, and punctuated by discussions of theater on café terraces and bar stools.
I’ll miss the colors: the burnt blue of the cloudless, afternoon sky, profound and still; the transparent turquoise of the pool, illuminated at night; the pastel palette of Provençal towns; the weary beige of a wheat field; the liquid coral pink of the Rhône, flowing lazily under the setting sun; the sweeping azure of the Mediterranean Sea on a sultry, summer day; the luscious green leaves of the poplars lining the route to Chateâurenard, gilded in the evening sun; the sandy gold of the façade of le palais des papes. And the striking photographs that are captured in my mind’s eye at every turn, every moment in Provence.
I’ll miss taking walks through Avignon, alone although surrounded by people, watching, wondering, coming up with stories about the pedestrians as they pass by. And the weary, lonely sound of my heels clicking down an empty sidewalk, the echo of my footsteps my only companion.
I’ll miss the French language, for goodness sakes, and the way it slips sweetly from my mouth, soft, fluid, romantic. And the small daily pleasure of self-expression in a foreign tongue, or the joy of learning a new word, a new expression, a new nuance of language never taught in grammar books.
I’ll miss the South of France, for all its worth, for its relaxed atmosphere, and welcoming people, and sizzling afternoons, and good wine, and olive oil, and picturesque towns, and nestled castles, and sunflower-lined routes, and stark sun, and blazing colors. And even its Mistral, and immigration problems, and sometimes dirty streets, for I am home here, and that’s what counts.
***
Someone, send me a bottle big enough to fit in the taste of perfectly aged Brie, and the odor of a freshly opened bottle of wine, and the sound of cicadas, and the grasp of an eight-month-old baby pulling at my fingers, and the expanse of Provence, spreading out before my eyes. And a cork, strong enough to contain the ferocious Mistral wind, and the beating of a heart bursting with affection, and the Atlantic Ocean that seems to constantly be separating me from home, no matter what continent I’m on. I cannot bear to let this beautiful life that I lead here escape.
In two weeks, I’ll be back on a plane, flying out of Paris on August 19th to return, once again, to the land where I was born. Instead of flying into the dawn over Paris, as upon my arrival two months ago in France, I’ll be flying into the sunset over Cleveland. It’s just not quite the same.
At the breakfast table this morning, I exclaimed with disbelief: “Tomorrow’s FRIDAY?” Constance laughed at me a bit. “But, yesterday was Monday, I swear.” Time goes by without my consent, it slips through my open fingers, it escapes my desperate grasp. Last night, I said goodbye for God knows how long to my friend Thomas, who saved me from destitute loneliness in the month of July. We stood face to face in the parking lot, neither willing to say the word, to articulate “goodbye,” to turn away, to return home alone.
I begin my preliminary mourning now.
***
I’ll miss the coffee, or espresso, rather—strong, dark, necessarily powerful—with one pure cane sugar cube and served with a tiny café spoon to eat the foam off of the top. And my four-o-clock coffee break, with a Speculoos dipping cookie, to caffeinate myself enough to make it through the rest of the day.
I’ll miss mornings when I wake up before the children, when the air is still cool and the house is refreshingly quiet. And likewise, mornings when Eric wakes up even before me to go to the bakery, and brings back fresh pain au chocolat and croissants for breakfast. And my daily petit déjeuner of croustillants choco (granola bits with dark chocolate chips) and a fresh nectarine (organic of course, since that’s how the de Lannoys rock it).
I’ll miss the cicadas—those obnoxious insects that fill my ears with incessant ringing until the racket tips me to the point of insanity . . . but without them, when a storm approaches and the cicadas fall suddenly silent, the air feels void, lonely. And the eerie whisper of the Mistral, telling secrets to the treetops.
I’ll miss Courgette, my fickle Jeep, and the adventures we take in French traffic, zipping through roundabouts and navigating France’s horrifically marked streets. And the grumble of her engine, and the trembling of the iron pedals and floor boards under my feet. And the whip of wind in my face as we zoom down the road.
I’ll miss the pool, and the sudden silence that gushes into my ears when I plunge in the pool. And the instant relief of cool water after a long, sticky run in the evening.
I’ll miss Eric’s favorite Côtes du Rhône rosé served with dinner, and Activia Nature, and chocolat liégois (or café liégois, if Cosette buys the wrong flavor), and brie and chèvre and conté cheese, and double caramel Mini Magnum ice cream treats that threaten to destroy any moderate diet. And fresh melon and apricots, at the peak of perfection. And the utter importance of dessert in general in this country.
I’ll miss Montaine’s toothless smile, genuine though infantile, and her outstretched arms, begging to be held after a long afternoon nap. And the gentle pressure of her tiny, blonde head on my shoulder as she falls asleep in my arms.
I’ll miss Rodrigue’s begging, beautiful, blue eyes as he looks up at me, tugging at my fingers, asking if we can play Uno. And the quiet satisfaction it gives me when he asks to help to set the table, declaring that he’ll bring the cups if I take the plates.
I’ll miss Gauthier’s laugh, and the adorable grimaces he makes when he struggles over the conjugation of an irregular verb in our daily French grammar lessons. And the calm, encouraging voice he uses when he plays with Rodrigue, patient with his little brother’s childish games in a way unlike any of his siblings.
I’ll miss Constance’s hugs in the morning, and the sad, pleading voice she uses when she learns that I’ll be going out for the evening. And her genuine excitement when I let her help plan family activities, or ask for her help to bake bread or set up scavenger hunts.
I’ll miss Alban’s sometimes ditzy demeanor, and his glorious moments of realization when he figures out a new technique to do a front flip or volleyball serve. And his questions, those silly, half-baked, whimsical inquiries that pop up in his mind, sometimes insightful, sometimes not, but amusing nonetheless.
I’ll miss cooking with Cosette, and her patient explanations of how to make ratatouille, mashed potatoes, pommes de terre sautés, mustard vinaigrette, fillet mignon, escalops pannés, and anything else to fill the little hungry bellies of the de Lannoys, young and old. And the conversations we have while peeling zucchini or chopping potatoes—anything from family matters to political drama, and everything in between.
I’ll miss Sylvaine’s soft voice, and her warm greeting every morning and every evening when she comes home from work. And Eric’s well meaning teasing, and his daily offering of un petit verre de rosé to cap off a long day of Uno, pool games, trampoline flips, dishes, and games with his children.
I’ll miss family runs in Montfavet, winding through quaint residential neighborhoods—Alban next to me, Rodrigue racing ahead on his bike, Constance in stride on her roller blades, and Gauthier keeping up a steady pace behind. And the glorious exhaustion that overcomes the children afterwards, affording me some much-needed tranquility.
I’ll miss chats with Sylvaine, when she takes me into confidence about her own childhood, and about her doubts and worries and fears and aspirations for her own children. And the French vocabulary lessons she gives me, always patient, never reproachful for mispronunciation or grammar slip-ups.
I’ll miss my rare moments of solitude, when I take a picnic and a book and watch the sunset over the Rhône. And the color of Avignon at night—a liquid gold luminescence that teases down empty streets but never quite makes it to the dark corners of the alleys.
I already miss le Festival d’Avignon, spilling out of over 100 theaters and into the streets, with costumed players parading the streets as a animated advertisement for their theater production. And street performers, from live statues, to hip hop artists, to folk bands, to DJs, to magicians, to traditional dancers. And the atmosphere that ensues—lively, surreal, and punctuated by discussions of theater on café terraces and bar stools.
I’ll miss the colors: the burnt blue of the cloudless, afternoon sky, profound and still; the transparent turquoise of the pool, illuminated at night; the pastel palette of Provençal towns; the weary beige of a wheat field; the liquid coral pink of the Rhône, flowing lazily under the setting sun; the sweeping azure of the Mediterranean Sea on a sultry, summer day; the luscious green leaves of the poplars lining the route to Chateâurenard, gilded in the evening sun; the sandy gold of the façade of le palais des papes. And the striking photographs that are captured in my mind’s eye at every turn, every moment in Provence.
I’ll miss taking walks through Avignon, alone although surrounded by people, watching, wondering, coming up with stories about the pedestrians as they pass by. And the weary, lonely sound of my heels clicking down an empty sidewalk, the echo of my footsteps my only companion.
I’ll miss the French language, for goodness sakes, and the way it slips sweetly from my mouth, soft, fluid, romantic. And the small daily pleasure of self-expression in a foreign tongue, or the joy of learning a new word, a new expression, a new nuance of language never taught in grammar books.
I’ll miss the South of France, for all its worth, for its relaxed atmosphere, and welcoming people, and sizzling afternoons, and good wine, and olive oil, and picturesque towns, and nestled castles, and sunflower-lined routes, and stark sun, and blazing colors. And even its Mistral, and immigration problems, and sometimes dirty streets, for I am home here, and that’s what counts.
***
Someone, send me a bottle big enough to fit in the taste of perfectly aged Brie, and the odor of a freshly opened bottle of wine, and the sound of cicadas, and the grasp of an eight-month-old baby pulling at my fingers, and the expanse of Provence, spreading out before my eyes. And a cork, strong enough to contain the ferocious Mistral wind, and the beating of a heart bursting with affection, and the Atlantic Ocean that seems to constantly be separating me from home, no matter what continent I’m on. I cannot bear to let this beautiful life that I lead here escape.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The Mother Tongue
3 août 2010 mardi
Language is a fickle friend, and jealous beyond reason. Having ignored my mother tongue for a solid two months, imagine the bastardized English that came out of my mouth at my first opportunity to use it extensively this weekend. English, like most small children, pets, and family members, does not respond well to neglect. It shrivels down, vocabulary words go missing, and grammatical structures tumble out backwards. I suppose this is the price I pay for plunging into the French language sea; after a few weeks of gulping water and nearly drowning, I grow gills. And when I come back up to the surface, I’ve forgotten how to breathe air. It’s no longer language acquisition, but rather language adaptation.
It is thanks to language adaptation that such gems as “keep looking for a couch comfy” (instead of “comfy couch”) or “you have the chance” (instead of “you’re lucky”) have appeared in my mouth. It’s barely worth mentioning the number of times construction such as “the car of” or “the house of” (instead of the regular possessive construction “Eric’s car” or “Kevin’s house”) have popped up in my conversation while talking with my parents or friends on Skype. And of course, classic flubs such as: “what day are we?” or “we are how many?” or “I have 20 years” or “I have hungry” are practically unavoidable at this point.
In the words of Nicky Re, my English is broken. This weekend, I had the chance to have live interaction with someone who truly speaks my own language (ie: English) for the first time in nearly a month and a half. Franglais bubbled up from my days at the fac in Avignon 2009, when I spent all of my time with French speaking Americans. “I feel like mange-ing” for when I’d like a bite to eat, or “what a piece of merde” for when I find something particularly disagreeable. At the caisse (cash register . . . no, check-out is better) at Auchan, when Nicky was buying a new maillot (er, swimsuit), we dissolved into giggles because we honestly couldn’t remember in what language Nicky had responded to the cashier. Broken English it truly is.
That being said, a few words about my tremendous weekend. As mentioned above, I had the chance to practice my English a bit this weekend with Nicky Re, who had come down from Paris to the Avignon area to visit her friends and family, who live in Miramas, a small town near Marseille. It wasn’t until leaving Avignon that I understood to what degree I had been quietly suffering from cabin fever. Apart from my brief adventures in Arles a few weekends ago, I have for the most part stayed in the Avignon area. My idea of “getting out” had been taking Courgette and heading into town for the theater festival or a soirée with friends in town. But good heavens, the countryside did me good.
Regardless of the impressive size of the de Lannoy estate, where I spend the majority of my time, it nevertheless has four (massive) walls. I walk in circles around the pool, transporting dishes from the kitchen to the dishwasher across the courtyard, or pace back and forth between the kitchen and the living room and the library. There are only so many geometric shapes one can make before going crazy, or feeling like a tiger in a cage.
There’s no remedy quite like poplar and sunflower lined streets, watermelon and a barbeque, hearty laughs and new friends, and drives through the mountains at sunset. I was wholeheartedly welcomed both among Nicky’s group of friends and at her family’s table. Leftover taboulee, homemade orange wine, and good Brie never tasted quite so good. I was reminded that a table, no matter how well stocked with wine and cheese and meat and bread, is never complete without laughter. And laugh we did.
Michel, Nicky’s French cousin, was more than delighted to act the tour guide and take us around to all of the hidden corners of la Côte Bleue region. Nicky and I were quite literally cradled to sleep like little children who fall asleep on car rides on a late night tour of l’Etang, an expansive inland bay, just inshore from the Mediterranean Sea. Saturday, we tried out a bit of geocaching, one of Michel’s favorite hobbies. In Miramas-le-Vieux, we followed the directions given on the geocaching website and deduced small riddles to find clues here and there in the tiny village. The clues combined to form a GPS point, where a treasure was supposedly hidden. Nicky and I were delighted to find not only the treasure (a logbook of former geocachers and little nonsensical gifts left behind), but a fruit tree lined route that lead from the final destination back to the car. There’s something fundamentally satisfying about plucking fruit directly off a tree and eating it, warm and juicy.
Our second geocaching of the day took us to Martigues, a town justly nicknamed the Venice of Provence. The town spans the two banks of a river and the tiny island crisscrossed with canals that splits the river in two. With its boats, canals, winding alleys, and bright blue bridges, I am compelled to put the town of Martigues in a glass bottle and display it on my mantelpiece.
Nicky and I would not be content until we made it to the beach, so we headed to the Mediterranean just as the sun was setting. We swum upstream against a crowd of sun weary beach-goers and installed ourselves on the beach to watch the sunset (which was magnificent, but that could just be my France/Mediterranean-lust speaking). Despite the frigid (I exaggerate) temperature of the water, we took a quick swim. Summer simply isn’t complete without a dip in the sea, and I always sleep better when I close my eyes and feel as though I’m still in the water, being rocked by waves.
In short, I rediscovered two things this weekend: the English language, thanks to the first American I have seen in person for a month and a half, and the French countryside that I truly do love, that rests just on the other side of the courtyard walls. And one thing is for sure: we live in a beautiful world, regardless of the language we employ to describe it.
Language is a fickle friend, and jealous beyond reason. Having ignored my mother tongue for a solid two months, imagine the bastardized English that came out of my mouth at my first opportunity to use it extensively this weekend. English, like most small children, pets, and family members, does not respond well to neglect. It shrivels down, vocabulary words go missing, and grammatical structures tumble out backwards. I suppose this is the price I pay for plunging into the French language sea; after a few weeks of gulping water and nearly drowning, I grow gills. And when I come back up to the surface, I’ve forgotten how to breathe air. It’s no longer language acquisition, but rather language adaptation.
It is thanks to language adaptation that such gems as “keep looking for a couch comfy” (instead of “comfy couch”) or “you have the chance” (instead of “you’re lucky”) have appeared in my mouth. It’s barely worth mentioning the number of times construction such as “the car of” or “the house of” (instead of the regular possessive construction “Eric’s car” or “Kevin’s house”) have popped up in my conversation while talking with my parents or friends on Skype. And of course, classic flubs such as: “what day are we?” or “we are how many?” or “I have 20 years” or “I have hungry” are practically unavoidable at this point.
In the words of Nicky Re, my English is broken. This weekend, I had the chance to have live interaction with someone who truly speaks my own language (ie: English) for the first time in nearly a month and a half. Franglais bubbled up from my days at the fac in Avignon 2009, when I spent all of my time with French speaking Americans. “I feel like mange-ing” for when I’d like a bite to eat, or “what a piece of merde” for when I find something particularly disagreeable. At the caisse (cash register . . . no, check-out is better) at Auchan, when Nicky was buying a new maillot (er, swimsuit), we dissolved into giggles because we honestly couldn’t remember in what language Nicky had responded to the cashier. Broken English it truly is.
That being said, a few words about my tremendous weekend. As mentioned above, I had the chance to practice my English a bit this weekend with Nicky Re, who had come down from Paris to the Avignon area to visit her friends and family, who live in Miramas, a small town near Marseille. It wasn’t until leaving Avignon that I understood to what degree I had been quietly suffering from cabin fever. Apart from my brief adventures in Arles a few weekends ago, I have for the most part stayed in the Avignon area. My idea of “getting out” had been taking Courgette and heading into town for the theater festival or a soirée with friends in town. But good heavens, the countryside did me good.
Regardless of the impressive size of the de Lannoy estate, where I spend the majority of my time, it nevertheless has four (massive) walls. I walk in circles around the pool, transporting dishes from the kitchen to the dishwasher across the courtyard, or pace back and forth between the kitchen and the living room and the library. There are only so many geometric shapes one can make before going crazy, or feeling like a tiger in a cage.
There’s no remedy quite like poplar and sunflower lined streets, watermelon and a barbeque, hearty laughs and new friends, and drives through the mountains at sunset. I was wholeheartedly welcomed both among Nicky’s group of friends and at her family’s table. Leftover taboulee, homemade orange wine, and good Brie never tasted quite so good. I was reminded that a table, no matter how well stocked with wine and cheese and meat and bread, is never complete without laughter. And laugh we did.
Michel, Nicky’s French cousin, was more than delighted to act the tour guide and take us around to all of the hidden corners of la Côte Bleue region. Nicky and I were quite literally cradled to sleep like little children who fall asleep on car rides on a late night tour of l’Etang, an expansive inland bay, just inshore from the Mediterranean Sea. Saturday, we tried out a bit of geocaching, one of Michel’s favorite hobbies. In Miramas-le-Vieux, we followed the directions given on the geocaching website and deduced small riddles to find clues here and there in the tiny village. The clues combined to form a GPS point, where a treasure was supposedly hidden. Nicky and I were delighted to find not only the treasure (a logbook of former geocachers and little nonsensical gifts left behind), but a fruit tree lined route that lead from the final destination back to the car. There’s something fundamentally satisfying about plucking fruit directly off a tree and eating it, warm and juicy.
Our second geocaching of the day took us to Martigues, a town justly nicknamed the Venice of Provence. The town spans the two banks of a river and the tiny island crisscrossed with canals that splits the river in two. With its boats, canals, winding alleys, and bright blue bridges, I am compelled to put the town of Martigues in a glass bottle and display it on my mantelpiece.
Nicky and I would not be content until we made it to the beach, so we headed to the Mediterranean just as the sun was setting. We swum upstream against a crowd of sun weary beach-goers and installed ourselves on the beach to watch the sunset (which was magnificent, but that could just be my France/Mediterranean-lust speaking). Despite the frigid (I exaggerate) temperature of the water, we took a quick swim. Summer simply isn’t complete without a dip in the sea, and I always sleep better when I close my eyes and feel as though I’m still in the water, being rocked by waves.
In short, I rediscovered two things this weekend: the English language, thanks to the first American I have seen in person for a month and a half, and the French countryside that I truly do love, that rests just on the other side of the courtyard walls. And one thing is for sure: we live in a beautiful world, regardless of the language we employ to describe it.
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