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Finally, I have found a space where I feel comfortable displaying the beautiful portrait that Remi created for me on my 40th birthday from a photograph that he had taken when we had first met. In the safety of my room, I can consider the gaze of that young Me with kindness and not flinch.

I still haven’t organized my books but am always so proud when, in the midst of scrambling for such and such volume, I come across a tome that has been written by a friend piled in amidst Shakespeare and the Brontë’s. 

to listen: some lovely music that is fittingly eclectic for this post…

Orange Blossom – Mexico from copilux on Vimeo.

Do you have a corner for yourself chez vous? I think that it is more important than we imagine.

Bon Weekend tout le monde!

Now, here is the thing. I really, really enjoy writing about food, especially of the ‘eating out’ variety. But, as I have lamented previously, in France I simply can’t afford the good stuff most of the time (although I have to say that I had an excellent lunch at Maison Druout in St. Rémy not long ago but was, alas, cameraless, hence proofless). Whenever I return to the States to visit my family, it is like whooppeeeeeee because a) they are foodies like me and need little to no encouragement to try something new and b) as Ann Arbor is a very cosmopolitan town, there is an international mix of delectables on nearly every block.

Of those, the opening of Slurping Turtle was the big kerbloom this year, as one would expect when a Michelin-starred chef – in this case Takashi Yagihashi – decides to go low brow and open up a noodle joint. Save, of course, as we all know, Michelin-starred chefs don’t really do low brow, do they?

When I first moved to Paris, I didn’t actually move to Paris. You see, Remi chose our apartment before I arrived – one that was close to the prestigious Gamma Photo Agency that he had been working with for years. We lived right on the other side of the Périphérique, the ring road that surrounds Paris proper, in a quiet suburban neighborhood (one that was shockingly so for this former Manhattanite). It was a ten to fifteen minute walk back to our flat from the metro, depending on which line we had taken, our moods and the weather. I remember strolling arm in arm on the way home from one of those rare evenings that we had spent in the City – for we were quite poor then – and looking with surprise at all of the apartments lining the boulevard with such strong overhead lights shining out of the windows (something that I still find odd) even in the finest buildings where chandeliers were quick with a wink. The figures inside showed up as distinctly as guests on a television show or figures in a Hopper painting, moving about their evening lives. “Don’t they close the curtains?” I asked Remi with a nod upwards. “Eh, no,” he responded. “Pourquoi?” Why wouldn’t they? “Um, for privacy?” I asked again, my voice pitching upwards on the last word. Remi turned to give me one of those bemused smiles that we would often share in those early days, when the train tracks of our cultures would cross over and then part directions. 

Somehow that memory flooded back to me this evening as I dashed around and then through the puddles, umbrella gripped and my grocery bags pulling down my shoulders. Certainly with the rain, this tiny little village had already retired for the evening and as always, the lights were on and everyone was home. I am still prudish in the American way at such proximity, as if they could feel my stare and perhaps they could if I lingered long enough as so many of the houses hold their kitchens and living rooms on the ground floor, mere steps from the street. But I did pause to catch two separate glimpses both in overly remodeled homes with shiny floor tiles and yes, neon bolts of bright white overhead. In the first, at a house where I often see chalk drawings in the alley out front, I saw a small boy, already in his pyjamas but with a yellow bib still around his neck, seated at straw-thatched chair of children’s height, low to the ground. In his hand, he held three cards and regarded them studiously with a tilt to his head as if the answers to all the world were within his grasp. I turned the corner and a few houses down, in one that had been newly rented this summer and where the Mother returned my only attempt at a “Bonjour” with a suspicious raised eyebrow, my glance was caught by a blur of movement. For there in the glow of a blue computer screen, also on a lower level to the floor, danced another boy, slightly older. His longish hair flew as his arms splayed wide, then overhead. He did a soft, unformed ballet leap. How pleased I was to know that happiness did in fact reside where I thought that it did not. 

These moments, seen so closely as if I had been simply remembering, were gathered gratefully as the rain fell down around me in the cover of night’s dark.

****

As I was editing the above, I suddenly had a palm slap on the forehead of “Aha!” for I recognized and had to give credit where was due as Jaques Tati had already expressed this idea of modern French life on display long ago! Here is a tiny bit of “Playtime” a true favorite in this house, one that extends beyond language but is, as are all of his films (if only he had made more!) a fitting diorama of contemporary culture. 

Once I discovered reading, as in really discovered the joys of it, I was a goner. Instantly, my near permanent “new kid” status didn’t sting as much because I had entire worlds to explore and so many characters to befriend. That started at when I was around seven or so. We had moved into a big Victorian home (gigantic from a kids point of view) and my bedroom was in the former maid’s quarters at the end of the hall near the back stairs to the kitchen. For some reason still unfathomable to me, as I am not nor ever was a princessey kind of girl, I chose pink as the main color theme when it came time to redecorate (this being one of the few rooms in the house that did not have the original wallpaper). Pink it became. And so perhaps it isn’t so surprising now, looking back, to see how I took refuge in the cedar-lined closet instead. I would make a little nest out of dirty clothes and with the bare bulb overhead would read until the world around me faded away entirely. My Mom has told me that at times she had to call my name repeatedly before I would “snap to.” And I still remember that feeling of being sucked back from wherever I was – walking down the street with David Copperfield – and being washed back up on the shore of that safe, small room within a room, blinking. In reading, sometimes I went so far into the weave of a story that the lines of reality blurred a bit. I was fuzzy on the edges. I would think, “I should call so and so” only to realize that I was thinking about one of the characters. 

That is how I have been feeling for the past few days. A different kind of limbo. I am deep in the pages of a book that many of you have read already (I am not saying which as I don’t want anyone to give me even the tiniest suggestion as to what happens) and it is all I can do. Is read. Somehow this story has chained itself to my heart so strongly that I feel like I am carrying the book around with me even when I am not. I get lost and look at the clock and hours have passed. 

That can happen occasionally too with instagram. No, the hours don’t pass – I am not that addicted! But I find a certain hum in the scrolling and scrolling with my thumb through peoples days, their lives and adventures. It feels oddly luxurious. I am sharing a few recent photos from my account as they are better suited for the mood that I am in. Less formal, not everything is in focus, which in itself is perfect for Provence, especially at this time of year. Little pieces of in-between or that’s me, just down the rabbit hole.

Another thing that I appreciate about instagram is the swiftness with which information passes, quicker than a tin-can telephone! And so today, when Sara Louise (@cestmoisaralouise) posted a photo of her  canine friend Fifty, I was able to get in on the action. It turns out that if those of us who have adopted dogs post a photo on ig with the adoptee adorned in a red ribbon with the tags @anniemovie and #ImARescueToo, $1 will be donated to the ASPCA. Isn’t that amazing? Ps. Something that I learned about him in taking this photo? That he was quite pleased wearing it – which rather surprised me and made me wonder if he didn’t wear a bandana around his neck in his “previous” life. Something else that I learned about him later on in the day? Firecrackers truly piss him off. Eh, oui.

The fog lay heavy on the high hills this morning, blocking my view. So it was a lovely surprise that as I sipped my tea, it slipped away or perhaps was chased by a bullying sun. We have had much rain in the past few days so I donned my thick boots, ready to battle the mud on my morning walk with the dogs. The humidity clung in the air and I could feel the curls springing on my head and tickling the back of my neck. As we passed the park, I paused to watch a group of tiny children of the barely walking age spin out from their keepers like starlings. One boy among them held up a red leaf as if he was seeing it for the very first time, as if it might be the greatest prize. And maybe he was right. I could hear their wordless murmurs bubbling into the air as I continued on my path. The light shined so clearly that I found beauty buried in puddles, in lines of fallen branches. No different from the small ones, then, filled with delectable wonder, that quiet flying hope.