December 1993, Erlanger, Kentucky -

You came to me in a Chinese rice box
No longer than my index finger;
Girl or boy, no one knew.
Quickly you outgrew your aquarium
And built up buff triceps with all the flowers you ate.

Once I rolled you up in a blue yoga mat
And spun you around the room like a helicopter --
You protested with a great big poo.

Then you scaled the living room curtains
Only to fall to the floor, break your right arm,
And limp out of the vet's with a bad ass cast
(which I could not wait for all my friends to sign).

Finally we learned you were a girl.

Sometimes you would venture around suburbia
And send me to Microsoft Paint to make missing posters
But that would never last long --
Sooner or later a terrified neighbor would appear on the doorstep
Saying that my monster was in their shrubs.

The years that followed are blurry now,
But wherever there was sun, there you were,
And often there we were together,
On my tropical beach towel, chowing strawberries,
And painting our toenails orange.

You became my confidante.

In the morning, you would run your long nails down my bedroom door, until I would awake;
During the day, you would spend hours flashing your colourful beard in the mirror,
And at night, after a long soak, how I was reassured to find you there waiting, under the blankies.

Throughout the years, you met many folks,
Of whom Sister K, my 8th grade teacher, who admired you as one of G-d's masterpieces,
And Cédric, who (we both know) got it all wrong when he called you Godzilla.
And whoever came by, they all applauded your sociability, and how in the summer you would go poo in the yard.

You knew your boundaries and kept them well,
Especially after you got lost in October several years ago
(Jack the neighbor found you in his woodpile, white as milk and stiff as ice, and wrapped you in his flannel shirt, a day before the first frost).

This past year, we spoke on the phone weekly
(Thank you for all those wet kisses on the receiver);
Mom said you were eating 25 clovers and a bowl of watermelon daily, and pooing well.

Today, I am told they buried you. Next to Albert.

Constants aren't, they say. But you were.

Thank you, Iggy, for fifteen fine years of sisterhood.

You will be sorely missed.

Lardy, the small village that, come tomorrow when the moving van rolls in, will no longer be my own, offers quiet nights with a view of the stars, a lazy river, la Juine, from which salad is harvested, and moss that grows on everything.

In its forests, I have discovered sane dunes, ancient caves, Roman roads, tombs, and lookout towers.

In the village proper, I have traveled each morning past the elementary school where my husband learned to read his first sentence. And many a letter have I sent to my mother in its quaint little post office, boasting a yellowed "Touche pas à ma Poste!" sign.

At the general store, Caprice, a wild caramel-coloured cat with long black wisps swirling around his body, gave me the evil eye this week when I dropped by to pick up some empty boxes for the move. Boxes with Petit Lu and Kleenex logos, soon to be filled with our affaires de nomad.

"So where are you moving to?" the grocer asked me.
"Dans le 15ème," I mumbled.
"Ah, ben, ça va alors!" he assured.

After a quick promenade, I've said my goodbyes to Lardy this morning. Nothing but white walls and boxes remain for company. Friqué, cliché, Paris, here we come.

It's been absolutely beautiful lately in these parts and for some time a canoeing trip has been in order. After gathering up lifevests, anti-mosquito lemongrass spray, sunblock, and water jugs (all things we don't regularly use), tomorrow will be spent together in the company of Jérémy, our invité, on our state's main river, La Juine. We're going to Etampes, a medium-sized town in the south, and then coming back upstream again. It's a rather lazy river, fitting since we'll be in this lazy boat:



Cédric's grandpa built it around the time paid vacation was granted to French workers. His family has used it ever since on the Juine, which runs behind both of our houses, as well as on the ocean and on several lakes.

We have a couple obstacles to face, although the weather will be perfect. For one, there's a mill halfway through to our destination at Auvers Saint Georges, which will require us to lift the boat out of the water and carry it to the other side of the mill. Secondly, there are two river patrol officers that we may have to clear. Normally this shouldn't be a problem, since we'll all be wearing our life jackets, but the boat isn't licensed (I've been told there's no need for a boating license around here) and, having grown up on the banks of the Ohio, I just feel weird being in a boat without a little metal plate with the year on it attached to the side. All of the other boaters I've noticed don't have licenses (at least not visibly), so I imagine we're not in breach of the law.

I'm excited, worried, and adventurous, but most of all I'm ready. Donc soyez prévenus, demain La Juine est à nous !

Avril est le mois des anniversaires, de l'anniversaire de ma chatonne qui aura un an le 21, et de notre anniversaire de mariage le 28. Mai, pour tous les français, est le mois des "ponts" avec trois jours fériés en plus. Et juin, c'est mon mois, le 15 étant mon anniversaire et le 21... la fête du début de ma troisième année en France.

Quand on est étranger ici, c'est quelquechose qu'on nous demande souvent : Cela fait combien de temps que vous êtes en France? ( J'ai l'impression que ça fait une vie entière. ) Et cette question est parfois suivie par une autre, la réponse moins facile : Et vous pensez rester combien de temps? Je suis persuadée que personne ne sait vraiment, sauf les étudiants en programme d'échange ou les touristes avec leur billets aller-retour.

Mais quant à nous, les expatriés, et puis-je me permettre, les immigrés, nous sommes coincés entre nos cultures et langues d'origine et celles qu'on maîtrise maintenant. Et au bout d'un moment j'ai l'impression qu'on se retrouve à une impasse de vérité où on se rend compte qu'on ne peut réelement pas tout avoir et il faudra prioriser.

Moi-même maintenant à la fin de cette deuxième année, je réflechis sur le parcours de combattant au niveau de l'identité et de l'intégration que j'ai vécu -- souvent c'était difficile, plein de larmes et de tristesse, mais de plus en plus les choses s'éclaircissent et on s'ouvre les yeux au fait qu'on est chanceux d'être ici ( et non pas juste parce qu'on sait combien on y mange bien ! ).

Disons, pourtant, que nos coeurs sont pleins de troux de nos vies d'autrefois. Dans une capitale aussi grande que Paris on peut souvent tenter de boucher les troux en regardant un film en VO à MK2 à Bibliothèque François Mittérand ou en lisant un livre qu'on aurait emprunté de la Bibliothèque Américaine de Paris ( faut que je m'abonne, d'ailleurs ! ). Mais quand on vient du Midwest comme moi-même, on n'est vraiment pas à la conquête de la culture quand on parle de notre mal du pays. Il s'agit plutôt de la nature, voir les champs de maïs ( pour le moment, ils ne sont pas encore OGM ici, mais ça va venir..) et même... la neige.

L'autre matin je me suis lèvée pour me préparer pour la journée quand j'ai vu cette neige fine sur les buissons des voisins...et soudainement j'étais en Indiana, regardant le vent former les collines de neige dans le jardin.

Et encore l'autre jour j'étais au bureau quand je me suis retournée pour savourer le beau soleil de printemps ( tellement rare de nos jours à Paris ! ) quand je me suis soudainement retrouvée sur un des dizaines terrains de golf que je fréquentais pendant mon adolescence américaine. Heursement, j'ai découvert qu'il y a un "practice" ( a driving range ) juste à côté de mon bureau et c'est rélativement ouvert au grand public et peu cher (contrairement à, disons, le golf de Saint-Cloud). Mais que tout le monde sache que je n'appellerai jamais un "driver" un bois !

( Heursement qu'un sand wedge reste un sand wedge, car j'en aurai, après deux ans sans golf, très besoin. )

I believe in silence,
In the silence of truth in the train,
In listening to the problems of others,
The diurnal pettiness;
I believe we live in a post-democratic era,
That the ways of the soul
Are beyond politics;
I believe in multiculturalism, multilinguism,
In the ghettos skirting the city,
chaud, chaud, chaud.
I believe in blessed perspective,
In transcending the human condition
Aggravated by capitalism
And talk of "personal responsibility"
As if we had any control at all.

I saw you lying there
Enrobed in chestnut fuzz
Alone on a yellow plateau,
So I poked you,
Felt your soft belly,
And brought you along
For dessert.

It was never more apparent than it was that evening, the train skating along the steel slivers across the abandoned fields of failure. A decision is never made, but reached, and this only after much mulling, after shrinking the imminent monster into nothing more than an ant, to be ground under the heel.

You need some chicken soup, she told me
Too bad I can't make you some, ship you some
I don't eat chicken, I thought
No chicken for the vegan!
And yet I know that it is medicine,
That no being died in its making,
And that I am still there sitting
In front of Teletubbies
Slurping broth.

We are supposed to fall into classes, personalities, extremes, niches,
Am I, for example, a woman, a wife, a student, or a daughter?
A perfectionist, a procrastinator, or possibly both?
Plutôt à droite ou plutôt à gauche?

To all these questions I simply reply
That on sleepy Monday mornings I watch the fog come in
After a long, warm shower, and slowly melt away with the sun
And in the evenings the train transports me through the ghettos,
And around me sway entire cities of illuminated Chinese lanterns,
Almost collapsing with the breeze.

But permeating through us, great waves of humanity,
Gliding along rhythmically in this sea,
Far from the land of mutual exclusivity,
And I am far too mesmerized to choose.

On Sundays, I wake up early, around seven, grab my filet américain, and head up to the market to buy croissants, fresh peach soy yogurt, apples, and bananas. On my way home, I stop for a minute at the overlook and gaze out over this vast, sleeping city, the only stirring coming from the couloir de la chimie, a row of chemical and nuclear facilities whose smoke stacks rhythmically stream water vapor into the clouds.

Cédric stumbles out of bed at eight, and together we take tea, read the New York Times, and discuss whatever happened while we were sleeping and what we think will become of it. In his eyes, crumbs of sleep linger, eventually falling away as he smiles at me and strokes the vibrant cat grass awaking next to him.

By nine we're on bus 18 with our gym sac full of swim stuff, heading up to the Piscine Saint Exupéry for our Sunday swim. This particular Sunday the pool is closed, because of Pentecost Monday and the French tendency to take off the day preceding the holiday, known as faire le pont.

In despair, we stand before the locked pool gate, under a curtain of sparkling mist, the same mist that touches Rose in Titanic when she sees the Statue of Liberty from the Carpathia and realizes that her life is only just beginning, and that she is strong enough to live it.

The snails beside us bask in the mist as I bask in their beauty, wondering how anyone could possibly be cruel enough to eat them. I don't wonder very long. But I marvel at their design, at their curves, at their mucus -- so miraculous, all of it, indeed everything is a miracle.

The mist carries me to the nearby cemetery, through the glazed purple leaves, through the wilted carnations and the tacky plastic tombstone flowers, to a sanctuary of calm sage. I am torn between the lives we live, the universal life in which nothing actually matters, in which we are but living matter in an entire universe, enclosed in who knows what. In which we pass our years by distracting ourselves with the personal world of religion and holidays and family and friends and studies, where everything matters and everything is known. Where there are obstacles only because of the latter. And the reconciliation of the two worlds, the eternal tourist's eyes such a thing wields, the aloofness, the tendency to look up rather than down, to love rather than to hate, to be in every way, because it seems, at last, that one is both condemned and sanctioned to do so.

I step out of my shower, slip into my clothes, and hop out the door with my rolling suitcase and E. Leclerc bag stuffed with my dirty clothes from the past two weeks. Today is laundry day.

One would think it spring with this weather, I think as the florist carts out new pastel flowers to replace the overbearing reds and greens of the holidays. Lost tourists on the corner shed their winter parkas before examining their guidebooks. And Mr. Philbiche, bless him, is out walking his little chien as usual. He looks as if he just might smile at me for the first time ever.

To my relief, I am toute seule in the laundromat, toute seule with my hundreds of t-shirts and socks and pants. They like this too, I feel it as I stuff them into the machine and lock the door. Anything involving water. I watch as they toss and spin and turn. I balance my checkbook to the beat of their turning.

White. White, white walls, bleached and cleaned with this glorious dust of lessive. A place of new beginnings, of washing out stains and sins and spills. Of renaissance. Whatever reasons many people give for detesting laundry day, I'll never understand: for me, it's a downright spiritual experience.

With my red rubber bracelet,
My ticket to heavenly buoyancy,
Hanging on my wrist,
I splash into the grand bain, again,
This time in a white halter one-piece
Instead of a ruffly Little Mermaid bikini.
The supporting floaties have long vanished
But I still feel them there, snug around my arms,
Giving me the confidence to finish the lap.
In my pink silicone bonnet, I'm just a bald baby
Floating and flipping in my mother's womb
Not worrying about my next meal,
Nor all the decisions I'll one day have to make.
I trust my momma, even though I've never seen her
I submerse myself in her omnipresence
And little by little she imparts unto me a soul,
My unique gift to the world.

Generally I tend to be more malicieuse than chanceuse, but lately I've been particularly blessed. First, Mère sent me silk socks, peanut butter, fine tea, and dark, dark chocolate. Cédric then sent me roses, one of my absolute favorite things. To top things off, I did mighty fine on my Hebrew final and came home to find Air France and SNCF tickets (neither of which I paid for) in my mailbox, meaning that I'm heading to Paris and then back home here in the coming weeks.

And I will so be seeing you all on the Champs for New Year's Eve. Happy holidays!

Finals week! And I'm well aware that my tsadi looks like the capital cursive 'z', but my Israeli prof (second from left) wears South Park, Corona, and UCLA sweatshirts to class: I'm thinking he won't be too horribly difficile.

Living in les pentes, the UNESCO-classified historical neighborhood clinging to the side of Lyon's second tallest butte, I have to admit my bum has gotten significantly more toned these past few months from the requisite vertical stair climbing and bike riding. What's more, I've even been able to profit from the hip quarter on the hill's summit, La Croix-Rousse, and all the goodies its Sunday market boasts: fresh-squeezed jus de poire, crisp pinkish apples, thick cottage cheese, and --my favorite-- flaky, heavenly, organic croissants.

However, as my mother always reminded me when I was tempted to eat the cookie dough before even spooning it onto the baking sheet, good things take time. And as I open les volets Sunday at eight in the morning and observe the rainy, overcast day, the question becomes, how much time is a good thing worth? The box of Quaker Oats stares at me, but I counter the urge by grabbing a banana and then my bicycle before I have time to think twice. Yes, it is Sunday, and I should probably still be in bed. Yes, it is pouring down rain, and my raincoat is hanging in my closet back in the Midwest. Yes, I really do hate pedaling up 75° inclines. But yes, how I love me some buttery croissants on Sunday (while watching Meet the Press on iTunes!).

The little Frenchman at the organic bread stand winks at me. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle! Vous voulez quoi?”

(In my thickest, “I'm thinking with my Anglophone brain” accent) “Je prendrai deux croissants s'il vous plaît.”

“Oulà! Une anglaise!”

“Non, non. Je suis américaine en fait.”

“Oh, mais que vous avez le même accent qu'une anglaise!” (Is it really necessary to remind me?)

“Bon, et mes croissants?”

“Mais, pourrais-je vous inviter, mademoiselle, à prendre un café?” Frog scribbles down his number and slips it to me with my croissants before I even have time to say non merci. (Just a note to all the frenchmen out there: stop hitting on me already. I'm so over it.)

A half an hour later, I'm back in my apartment (soaking wet, of course) with my perfectly plump croissants, thinking how deprived we Americans truly are, limited to those noisy Pillsbury “croissants” and sugared cardboard breakfast cereals that taste good until the minute we take a bite into one of these traditional French delicacies. Holding them up to the light, I notice their intricate layers, their full-figured courbes, their cloud-like fluffiness. And for a moment, un tout petit moment, I feel lucky to be living here.

You know, Mère, if you had my acting skills and I had your driving skills, we'd be in business.

Last weekend Cédric, Hélène, and Jérémy set my little world abuzz with their love for all things cultural. Apart from the requisite flanning in antiquated Vieux Lyon, we mainly lazied around my apartment taking in lots of films and music, comparing photographs, and drawing. Cédric, whose history of incessant art instruction puts mine to shame, suggested a Saturday morning drawathon. And in the end, as I think you'll agree, our styles are not comparable: he's a Realist and I'm an Impressionist. And of course, just like in the old days of Miss Humbarger's class, we feasted on the pears and cookies afterward.







Cédric's rendition:


and mine:

I’d like to deny it,
To say it never happened,
That I never saw him jump aboard that train
Alone
While I stood there watching,
As I had for the last half hour,
Thinking only what a great plot
He would make,
But never about his family,
Who wouldn’t be feeding him table scraps
This evening,
Nor about the children who
Would no longer bury their faces in his fur,
And tell him about their boyfriends,
Or how, last night, they had a bad dream
That he ran away,
Out of curiosity,
And took a train to Paris,
Never to be seen again.

I'm pretty sure that the TCF/TSF confusion can only be fully appreciated by American students in the French system (and their petit garçons, of course).

I went from this


to this


I've been literally living out of my suitcases for about two months now, so if anyone needs advice about how to best go about it, please don't hesitate to ask: I'm officially an expert.

A beautiful poem heard yesterday over at The Writer's Almanac..

Statistics class is an opportune time to do some morale-boosting Chicago dreamin’. Never mind the prof’s shrill voice; the only audible sound is the scream of the Metra above, the way its steel riveted skeleton trembles with each coming train. Lines of parallel fluorescent lights illuminate each car, creating a glowing aura as it maneuvers the striking skyline. The round butts of the conjoined buses, proudly bearing their CTA tattoos on their plump hips and flashing “Congress” across their wide foreheads, slither through the streets past the flocks of shivering pedestrians. A perfectly powdered Lake Michigan contrasts with the obsidian black of the Sears Tower. French horns adorning Marshall Field’s yawp Auld Lang Syne as we, sipping our reds in a lively Lil’ Italy ristorante, bask in the prevalence of Chicago’s arresting beauty.

Honestly, who really listens to the statistics prof when she can reminisce about heaven on earth?

I got my AP French Language test results back today. And fêted at my perfect score of 5. Ah, 6 college credits before even going to college. Such are the banalities of life.