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.