My new Tour Eiffel. Anchorage, AK

Life goes on. I understand. It's the reason why I wept in the car the last time I saw Esther, May 2009, knowing our time was over. It's the reason why I remained cheerful at the Charles de Gaulle airport, waving to Emilie, April 2012, confident to return. It's the reason why now, I see an image, hear a sound, and choke on my own emotion knowing even when I do return to France, it will not be the same. That chapter has ended.

And the question to keep us reading is, what could possibly happen next?


Thank you for all your love and support.

Emily

List of fill in the blank

1. So many happy, friendly people.
2. Unwarranted hugs.
3. Bland food.

Hugs. If it’s not my best friend, mom, grandmother, aunt or the family friend who has merited the equivalent rank after years of love and loyalty, it’s gonna be awkward. There are so many different ways to hug, it’s nearly impossible to guess correctly which one will be their form of acknowledgement to your presence. Even if I once had everyone’s styles memorized, I have forgotten after 8 months of le bisou. With the french bisou, there are two options: start at the left or start at the right. As the foreigner, my job was easy, I let the Parisian begin. Now I wonder, will she try to hug me? Is she going for the side or the front? Should my arms go under her arms? Shucks! How long does she hug? Can I pull away now? This is so awkward! Quick! be composed and happy!

Food. I knew the food wouldn’t be as good but I didn’t expect to use the word bland. Of course, my Mom is a wonderful cook and I had some delicious things but a simple thing like a side of rice, doesn't satisfy. Fortunately, Gram came over for lunch and brought a freshly baked Tollhouse pie with semisweet chocolate chip morsels. Though the ice cream was dull (Bluebell even, but that’s Italy’s fault) it was Gram’s best pie to date, and she’s made many goood pies.

The cherry trees at Notre Dame

I'm sitting in the little kitchen at an old table distinguished with a pale yellow table cloth bearing stains of my final meal with the family the night before.

Last night, Elisabet remarked that she doesn't like partings. She prefers it to be threaded into the day, without the long eulogies. Saying goodbye is like a sort of death, she reflected.

As the moments slip from under me, I try to keep my balance, to make the most of my last days in Paris. But no matter how much I reflect and walk the familiar streets in a desperate effort to imprint everything on my faltering mind, I feel like I'm trying to pin down a cloud.

You know when you start to be conscious of a dream but it's because you are about to wake up? And the dream is so uncommon and good that you tell yourself to keep sleeping which actually awakens you further. Five minutes later you're entirely conscious and the details slip away. Soon, all that remains is that vague tingle that something marvelous happened.

What rests is the memory of a feeling of a dream.

After lunch walk: Emily, Emilie, Sam, Paul

The sun was fading fast so Pascale took the dishes from our hands and pushed us out the door. Since it was Sam's first time to la Flèche and Emilie hadn't been there for years, I took the lead in our ride through and around town.
As we biked along a little stream we changed course to follow the sounds of music. Our search yielded two things: a man on a little drum, leading the group of percussionists encircling him in a catchy tribal hammering and thumping, and a one roomed building emitting stomps and western twang. While Sam held back, hoping his obvious hesitancy would dissuade Emilie/y from any bad ideas, we approached the large, open windows. As we'd hoped, a couple of the hat bearing, boot wearing, middle aged French cowboys noticed and promptly invited us in.

Photo courtesy of Emile 

Emilie immediately informed them that I was from Texas. When I added "Dallas" a sudden choras of the theme song from the 1970's TV series Dallas filled the happy room.
The line dancing instructor called us to the front to teach a new line dance. Once he began playing "God Bless Texas" I showed immense enthusiasm but my feet  never caught on. He sent me home with a book on the beginning of country western dancing to its arrival in France and detail instructions on how to do the line dance.

How funny that I happened to wear boots and the only flannel shirt I own which I never wear in Paris.

When I was little, I often enjoyed toast smeared in butter and battered with cinnamon sugar, all spread gloriously onto a paper towel which, when I finished my breakfast, exhibited melted butter stains and Mrs Baird's crumbs—but I always got up all of the sugar by applying a well licked finger. During the same time, snacks usually consisted of something like Gram's chocolate cake, Mom's brownies' or chocolate chip cookie dough (I learned that one from Dad).

My snack crave today was radishes with a bit of butter.

Change in taste? I think so.

I fell in love with an enchanted animals fairy tale book that I discovered at an old book market at Place Monge. The images are captivating. When I researched the illustrator, Adrienne Ségur, I discovered an article that included a photo of her holding her guinea pigs.

A kindred spirit.

My saturday afternoon

During the first year of university I was on the ballroom dance team. The chacha was our favorite but I figured cuban Salsa couldn't be too different. After several weeks of failed attempts to go to retro dancing with a friend, we finally made it out. Both of us were late but at least we got there.

The way home (metro) closes by 2:30am

For 13€ I got a coat check, 2 hours of lessons, a drink, and the option of dancing until four in the morning. The first hour of lessons was comfortable. As the second hour began and the number of salsa hopefuls doubled, the instructor asked the débutants to move to another dance floor and to respect the work of the intermédiaires. Having watched others who were descending miss the most basic steps, I decidedly kept my place…until the second turn. 2 minutes later, I was at the floor with the other débutants.

That the evening, I discovered I am not the fabulous dancer I'd hoped. My friend, however, is a fantastic salsa dancer, one of those good-natured guys that guides you around with deft movements and smiles 'till afterwards you feel like you were the talent. I always remembered my true colors coming out of a series of turns. I could never remember what count we'd been on.

I found Eric Maunoury in rue Mouffetard playing his assortment of boxes and tins and wearing a leopard print hat. After listening for a while I continued to the metro and took the train to marché aux puces.

Fumiyo turns a 15min presentation into an hour
long exposition on…I think Japanese characters.

Happy child.

 First day in shorts without tights since september and my legs joyously sucked in as much air as possible. We strolled comfortably in shorts to the Luxembourg Garden to scour the crowded park for a chair in the sunshine. Before closing my eyes, I witnessed a remarkable procession of children dressed as flowers and bumblebees parading around the fountain. Just when I thought the spectacle was finished, the ladybugs and butterflies filed by with their adult escorts, trying to keep pace with the lilies and roses ahead. I reclined there until a chiming clock informed me that my grammaire class had just begun. Luckily I was only 5-10 minutes away.

I told my friend (she's french) if she'd help me with my
presentation, I would make a tart…for us to eat together…

My french grammaire prof requires each of us to give a fifteen minute presentation before the end of the short semester. There are guidelines but all I remember is that they left room for Texas. So, Tuesday afternoon I shared with over 20 students from 13 different countries the history of my home state—which could be a country if it wanted to—followed by a demonstration of how to make guacamole. Discombobulated by the french, I neglected several important facts and phrases of Texan history but in the end, we had tortilla chips and guacamole.