C'est Pour la Petite Bourgeoisie Qui Boit du Champagne

8 juillet 2010 jeudi

To the Delannoy Parents:

We are of the same flesh, you and I, but we are not of the same mind. We belong on opposite sides of the counter, of the fence, of the camera. You are the ones who eat 26€ fish at le palais des papes, I am the one that sprinkles cocoa on your tiramisu. You are the ones that coyly throw 50 centime pieces that drop with hollow thumps into open guitar cases, I am the one who sits on street corners and sings songs in a language you don’t understand. You are the ones who serve steaming croissants and pain au chocolat for breakfast, still hot from the oven, and I am the one who rises at 5 to bake your daily bread.

It is often said that my world exists solely to serve yours, although I cannot agree. It is simply that our worlds only seem to jostle up against one another when we go to work, and you go to be fed, or entertained, or served. You are the question askers, we are the answer givers. You are the hungry, we are the food providers. What would you do without us?

Although our worlds may jockey and collide whilst we wear our aprons and you wear your jewels, our spheres of recreation spin off in separate directions in the night. Under the stars, you glisten in your diamonds, floating constellations on earth that vanish when the lights snuff out. And we, in that darkness that you leave behind, open up, crack a beer, throw our heads back, and laugh, laugh, laugh.

I have something that you have not, and it is certainly not money. Upon arriving in your 300 year old home, I was astonished by the way that you live. It wasn’t simply the high vaulted ceilings, the chandeliers, the in ground pool in a courtyard of its own, the private gate, the barn, the donkey, and the horse, goddamnit. It was your laundry room, your pantry, and, above all, your refrigerator.

When I cleaned out the freezer today, I found rabbit. Rabbit? You have four jars of Nutella in reserve in the pantry. When there was “nothing to eat” for lunch one day, Cosette pulled fillet mignon out of the second freezer. At all times there are three types of yogurt in the refrigerator (Yoplait fruit, Activia, and Bio yogurt for Montaine), as well as caramel flan and chocolat liégois. You have more pots and pans than you will ever use, and more table settings than people you will ever need to serve. And although you buy bio—to save the planet, as you quaintly put it—you live anything but “bio.”

Sure, you recycle, but have you seen your laundry room, and the sheer amount of loads of laundry you do in a week? Or the three refrigerators/freezers you have stock piled and plugged in at all times? Or the enormous television that the children so often refuse to turn off? Or the pool, that is at times up to 30 degrees Celsius (86 degrees Fahrenheit)? Or the three dishwasher cycles it takes daily to take care of the ever-growing pile of plates on your counter?

When I make coffee in the morning (before I eat a lovely breakfast of Bio Cereal and an Organic Nectarine and Ecofriendly Multifruit Juice), I use a small, gold-coated single-serving capsule made specifically for your machine. At Ohio University, in my shared 14’x18’ box, Mary and I brew coffee that she steals weekly from the dining hall, which is stored in a used can. Forget culture shock—it is class disparity that makes me wake in the morning in awe and in stupor of the life that I lead here.

I spend my days with your children—your five lovely little beasties that barely say thank you and leave Nutella on the newly purchased chairs after the 4pm snack. They are quite difficult to interest, you know. They are over-stimulated by television, personal laptops, Wii, and constant attention . . . I can’t imagine sitting down for a whole hour with them to do one of my Grandpa Mihuta’s art lessons. Art, as tempting as it sounds for children, has no crashes, booms, explosions, prizes, or cash rewards. And that is what your children expect me to provide, as though I keep excitement in pill form in my pocket.

Constance is writing a book—a children’s book of animals to give to Montaine. But what she doesn’t understand is the utter delight that an author takes in putting pen to paper. She is writing it, in part, due to your promise to give her a few dollars upon its completion towards her cell phone fund (I remind you that Constance is 11 years old). I am convinced that at some point in their lives, all artists must live in a box—be it cardboard or dorm room sized. What distinguishes an artist from a clever and creative businessman is that an artist can not simply tolerate a box, but also appreciate it, appropriate it, and turn it into something beautiful in and of itself—a work of art in box-form.

While wandering this evening in la place de l’horloge, I stumbled upon a traveling folk band playing on worn instruments with sparse amps in front of l’opéra. They were surprisingly good, to tell the truth; they reminded me of some of my friends from back home in Athens, playing house shows in backyards to drunken crowds. At one point while I was watching, the string bass player bent down and placed his ear just next to the neck of his weathered instrument, and listened. He closed his eyes and nodded his head as though he were giving silent approval, and smiled. The band probably won’t make an exorbitant amount of money tonight, despite the festival crowds—probably just enough to get back home, eat a filling dinner, buy some good beer, and enjoy the night . . . but they will be content. I recognized the emotion that flickered across the string bass player’s face. I too know the feeling of honing in on a harmony, and knowing that it is good. And that is what happiness feels like—bliss, joy, peace, and a good bass line.

Today, you bought a miniature trampoline, a full sized trampoline, inflatable volleyball net for the pool, and a floating scooter for Montaine. The children were delighted, and will most likely remain so for a few days—hopefully through the weekend and on to Monday or Tuesday if we’re lucky. But soon they will want more. Always. More. Ad nauseum. Gaspillage. Why isn’t it bigger, daddy? Why won’t it float anymore, papa? Who will play with me, mama? Can we go to the festival, Rachel?

The house is supercharged, bursting at the seams, bloated: a pool, a Wii, a playstation, a television, laptops, games, animals, food, and now even a trampoline. It is any child’s paradise. But the children are not content. Far from it. They are itchy, they are restless. They ache for the outdoors—an outdoors that lies beyond the pool, the courtyard, the garden, and the gate.

I have something that you have not: EXPERIENCE. Will your children remember specific days in the pool, with the new air mattress that you bought them last week, or the trampoline, or the inflatable volleyball net? Or will they simply melt into an indiscernible blur of summer haze, punctuated by Montaine’s screaming and the knocking of the Mistral at shutters and doors?

I am grateful for what I have, for what I have is invaluable. You can’t poke holes in it, you can’t drain it, you can’t stain it, and the Mistral won’t blow it away. Although my financial prosperity is dwarfed by the size of your estate, I have memories. I remember specific days of my childhood, over a decade ago. I have seen the corners of my country, and of yours. I have swum in two oceans and a sea, I have crossed the Atlantic three times, and I am not afraid to travel alone. And I am here, in France, happy, alive, and grateful, even if my monthly stipend is less than your weekly grocery bill.