Erik Satie in the morning. Gymnopédie No.1 with a cup of coffee. It's cold inside the house and we sit with our feet out until the sweat on them becomes too cold. Then we put them back into a pair of waiting slippers.
September along the shore. There's a man standing in a yellow fisherman's coat and waders. He's casting at the end of the beach where it meets a cliff face that goes straight up in layers of finely grained limestone. It's an uncanny scene. A daub of yellow at corner right, with the soft sea blue and green and grey washing up on the left. Between there is the textured white of the beach that meets at its end the rising texture of the cliff. It is raining slightly, some of that is sea spray, and the man is fishing. in his black boots.
"But suddenly it was as though she had appeared in the room, and this apparition caused him such harrowing pain that he had to put his hand on his heart. What had happened was that the violin had risen to a series of high notes on which it lingered as though waiting for something, holding on to them in a prolonged expectancy, in the exaltation of already seeing the object of its expectation approaching, and with desperate effort to try to endure until it arrived, to welcome it before expiring, to keep the way open for it another moment with a last bit of strength so that it could come through, as one holds up a trap-door that would otherwise fall back."
from The Way by Swann's by Marcel Proust
translated by Lydia Davis
An old woman looking for a grave. She's speaking quickly to herself as she walks along the dirt paths that cross between headstones. Her language is foreign and you don't understand what she's saying other than that you recognize the repetition of a last name. It's a well-known spot which you've just visited. You say the name then beckon for her to follow. She speaks quick French to you as if you understand. The rock is just over there. It has his name on it. She says thank you and you nod and smile.
Growing up, French culture had been drained to a cliché. The Eiffel tower was on pillows and cheap prints at Wal-Mart. It was a precursor age, right before social media. So our generation witnessed firsthand the explosion of selfies taken, again, with the Eiffel tower in the background. There seemed to be no other landmark. Wine, yes. Fashion, yes. Counter culture, counter to what? If you were lucky you might catch the Arc de Triomphe in some romantic comedy.
Their attitude reminds the wise
to shun the world of haste and noise,
to find a niche and never stir.
from 'Owls' by Charles Baudelaire
translated by Jan Owen
So we abstained from French things. There were too many girls posting single pictures in a beret. We believed Pushkin as he mocked Rousseau. We learned different languages, Spanish and Portuguese and German and Arabic. When it came time to dream about moving abroad, to study in, or flee to another country, we acknowledged France in our minds but never treated it as an option. How could we? It had been so, done.
Time passes, then suddenly there's an opportunity. You take the chance because, secretly, you know it's where you want to go, even if the risk is high. You're doing it the right way, without money. You're traveling at the lowest fiber of possibility, hoping to scrape the bottom of something so consistently seen. You have a tentative place to stay, no access to the language, and no way back for an extended period of time. It's not ideal and that's why you have to go.
Here you are at my side again
Memories of my companions dead at war
Olive of time
Memories now all sewn into one
As a hunderd furs make only one coat
As the thousands of wounds make only one newspaper article
Impalpable and sombre apparition grown
To the shifting shape of my shadow
An Indian on the lookout for all eternity
Shadow you crawl along beside me
But you no longer hear me
Nor will you know the divine poems I sing
While I hear you I see you still
Destinies
Multiple shadow may the sun watch over you
You who love me so you never will go away
Who dance in the sun without kicking up dust
Ink shadow of the sun
Script of my light
Caissons of regrets
A god who humbles himself
from 'Shadow' by Guillaume Apollinaire
transalted by Beverly Bie Brahic
KFC at the corner by Pere Lachaise. Now that's an experience. France was good to us. Like many things which were still beautiful after being run through, with respite, some of the allure renewed. Time makes the heart and all that. It's a strange thing to say when for two years it was hard to go anywhere, much less across international borders. Another abstention. But, things are slowly unfurling again. The flowers are blooming after having been stomped into the dirt. You can still see the imprint of a boot, but the old stems were shed. France was a beautiful place. Car exhaust in Paris, rain over the cliffs by the Falaise D'aval, Chinese food at the docks in Le Havre. Sometimes you just have to go. If you can manage it, France is a good place for that.