Vous me manquez

14 juillet 2010 mercredi (Happy Bastille Day!)

When Eric asked me this morning whether I was happy, I responded with a resounding “OUI!” Then, he asked if there was anything in particular that I missed from back home, excepting my friends and family, of course. I utterly blanked. I’ve been thinking about it all day, between games of pool volleyball, Uno, and chess. If living two lives—a French life, and an American counterpart—has taught me anything, it’s that as soon as I leave one home, it is extremely difficult to articulate exactly what I love about it, or miss, and why. Certainly I miss something about the United States, but when pressed for an answer this morning, I found that I simply couldn’t express myself. I’ve resolved to try.

***

I miss enormous, refillable mugs of coffee from Donkey, and blueberry streusel muffins that have just come out of the oven. And chai tea. Huge, steaming mugs of swirling, creamy chai tea, delicately frothy and perfectly spicy and sweet.

I miss Chinese take out, and Good Fella’s pizza, and Wendy’s frosties and fries in the middle of the night. And DP Dough. And all food that can be ordered over the phone, any day, at any hour.

I miss my walk to work, out of Squat, down the hill by Clip, through Emereti Park, past Peden stadium, under the bridge by the on the bike path, across the highway over the river, and up to the Ridges on the path through the woods. And the view coming out of OU Press, looking over the Hocking River and to the Ohio University campus on the bank, and Athens stretching out beyond.

I miss Sunday runs at Stroud’s Run—hot, 2 hour affairs where we circumference the entire lake on a path through the forest. And the talks we always have between steady footsteps and deep breathing, and the energy beans that Jesse always carries on long runs.

I miss my 14’x18’ box in Squat, ironically enough, with its wall of photographs, and its sticky notes, and its borrowed lounge chair, and its soft lamp lighting, and its reliable internet, and its bottomless pot of coffee, and its view of Morton Hill and the tops of the buildings on East Green and South Green beyond. And I miss Mary, and her rants about the corn industry and food corporations and government corruption and university financial and administrational affairs. And our multilingual conversational exchanges, when one of us forgets a word in any one of the four languages that we collectively speak.

I miss Franklin, my blue 1999 Nissan Altima, and the drive from my house into Dalton, winding down through the valley and across the train tracks at Sonnenburg Station, then climbing back up the other side. And I miss the fog that creeps in the crevices of the valley on humid mornings, and the floods that turn the fields into lakes, and the view of the sunset to the west from the summit of the hill on Wenger Road, before plunging back down into Dalton.

I miss peanut butter, and English measurements (cups, tablespoons, teaspoons), and the Fahrenheit scale. And I miss bulk food stores with endless stocks of flour, and sugar, and oats, and cocoa, and nuts, and everything a baking fanatic could possibly want to make a mid-afternoon snack for five children.

I miss the smell of sweet corn fields in the morning, fresh with dew, and the soft sizzle of morning haze lifting with the rising sun. And granola bar breaks, and iced tea, and field songs, and, believe it or not, counting to sixteen and a half for 6 hours a day, standing on a wagon with sacks of corn up to my waist.

I miss staying up until four in the morning with good friends, making trouble and roaming the town. And Sunday morning brunch, recapping the events of the weekend, and preparing for the upcoming week. (I do not miss dining hall food, however. Thank god that’s done with.)

I miss putting the final period on the final sentence of a final paper, or turning the last page of a novel of epic proportions. And the satisfaction of an essay well written, an argument well defended, a project well presented.

I miss sitting at coffee shops for hours on end, talking about life and love and the universe or nothing in particular. And breakfast at the Bliss (R.I.P) or Mugswigs runs at absurd hours in the evening for thick, rich double chocolate mochas, making it impossible to sleep.

I miss wandering in the middle of the night with Adam, to obscure locations to watch meteor showers, or strangers’ rooftops to sit and commiserate, or the backyards of frat parties to pretend we know “Todd,” or “Brad,” or “Rob.” And Capitol Hill and the Rachel-Stephanie-Rachel sandwich. And inevitable debauchery with my Frenchies and the rainbow crowd.

I miss watching Das Dutch Kitchen wake up and come to life to the smell of freshly baked bread after having been there for hours, knuckles deep in rising dough. And the pleasure of finding a clean apron, or oven mitts without holes, or newly purchased sprinkles for sugar cookies, or just-whipped batches of smooth vanilla icing.

I miss spending time in the kitchen with my mom, peeling beets until our hands are blood-red, or chopping fresh strawberries until our fingers are wrinkled, or squeezing out grape juice until the air smells intoxicatingly sweet and humidity drips down our faces and onto our aprons. And I miss saying goodnight to the night with my dad, or sitting out by the campfire until only ashes remain.

I miss hearing the crack of a bat from summer league baseball games at Kidron park, and the slightly out of tune sound of the marching band playing the alma mater and fight song at Dalton football games, and the breathless encouragement of Augs at cross country runners as they pant on by, and the unmistakable thud of a pole sliding into the box as a polevaulter launches off the runway. And Gatorade, and the unmistakable taste of Nussbaum Road well water.

I miss time alone with only Regina Spektor and my favorite piano in Glidden, forgetting that I have a paper due in 12 hours, or a novel to read by the next day, or a presentation to research and prepare by the end of the week. And the trailing voice of an acoustic guitar, teasing out of an open window as I run by in the evening.

I miss the constellations of summer, puncturing the velvety, cloudless sky with studded diamonds, telling stories across the night sky. And lying flat on my back, listening to crickets and the wind whispering through blades of grass. And catching the lightening bugs that respond to the blinking of the stars.

I miss my cats: Jack, and Lucy, and Smudge (also, R.I.P), and the unconditional love of a domestic animal for She Who Brings the Food. And the braying of Glen’s animals down in the valley, the crowing of the rooster at the first hint of dawn, or the tinkling of bells around cows’ necks as they meander through meadows on the way back to the barn at night.

***
In thirty-six days, I return to the United States. I’ve been in France for thirty-five days. I am not ready to go home. I am not ready for July to be halfway done. I am not ready to face the huge expanses of vast America. I am not ready to drive amongst the car-giants of gas-guzzling ignorance, on roads wide and spacious. I am not ready to choose between twenty brands of chips (or potato crisps, or pretzels), or thirty flavors of ice cream (let alone frozen yogurt and sherbet), or seven shampoo types (straight, curly, greasy, dry, damaged, colored, and last but not least, normal hair). I am not ready to feel dwarfed in parking lots, in waiting rooms, in clothing stores. I am not ready to speak in my native tongue, to hear English on the radio, to be bombarded with all the words I grew up with, and expressions that simply don’t translate into French.

And yet America lies in wait on the other side of the Atlantic. Waves and oil pound at its shores, and the currents of the ocean and time sweep me towards it. I can do nothing to stop this (neither can BP).

I returned to the United States last year on June 23, 2009, after learning on June 19 that my visa extension had been denied, thereby cutting my planned trip short by nearly two months. My return was marked by tears, bitter depression, and a brief expatriate adventure to Canada. I was saved from utter desperation by the legal drinking age in the land up north of moose and hockey, and sweet corn season.

When I think of the United States, I am tempted to immediately fixate on the negatives: the devastating ecological disaster that is destroying the Gulf environment and economy at large; the corruption of private corporations and government alike; the fatal ignorance of the American populace that kills without ever being counted by statistics; the precarious and staggering social security system; the political stalemate in Washington; the mindset of American exceptionalism; the unjust wars abroad, and the silent, internal wars that ravage racially demarcated neighborhoods that barely make the evening news. But I cannot think of the United States as the land of the stolen frontier if I hope to maintain my sanity upon my return. I must instead remember that deep in the crevices of my motherland hide pockets of sunshine that I can see shining from way over here, thousands of miles away, in France. Sure, in thirty-six days, I’ll be leaving my new home, Chez les Delannoys, in Montfavet, France. But who can say anymore when exactly I’m leaving home, and when I’m going home? This is how it works, after all.

I end on a purely Regina note, with lyrics from “On the Radio,” a song that never fails to make me feel better:

“This is how it works
You’re young until you’re not
You love until you don’t
You try until you can’t
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe
Until their dying breath—
Now this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope you don’t get harmed
And even if it does
You’ll just do it all again . . . ”

Bonne nuit, tout le monde. Vous me manuez.