In the summer, I am French.

In the summer, I am French. I wake when my body is rested, I drink my coffee – rather than chug it. I go into the garden. I sample whatever is ripe that day. I talk to the cats and the birds, and the bugs. I have a glass of wine at mid-day. I pull weeds and dig dirt and find wonders in tiny things that grow. I eat a lunch without the pressure of a 33 minute period defined by a very rude bell. I talk with the neighbors, I have friends over to visit, I enjoy. Sometimes I don’t care about how I look and instead decide I am beautiful as is. I have night fires with marshmallows, and bottles of beer to cool off an afternoon. I eat peanuts in the shell on the back steps. I think lots of thoughts or none at all. In summer, I am the self I want most to be. I am happy.

In the summer, I am French. I take trips to a place that fascinates and excites me. I eat everything in sight. I nervously order a coffee at the counter in the café around the corner from my Paris hotel – hoping I will blend in more if I do. I know now that those delightful little pastry bites are not filled with pistachios, but escargot, and should be avoided. I know all the other things I like, and that Madame will be kind as I stumble through French exchanges and that she will warm up my quiche avec chevre et champignons for me as I scurry off to Montmartre to visit my old haunts. I sample whatever is fresh at the market. I search for my favorite toothpaste at Casino supermarche. I go to BHV and find endless amusements and sometimes things to buy. I go to the Eiffel Tower. I talk to strangers and feel connected to a bigger world than the one I often live in. I ride the metro like a pro. And occasionally, very occasionally, I am mistaken for something other than American.

In the summer, I am French. I live, for too short a time, in a 13th century castle with two dear Frenchmen who I love as my family. I pull weeds and dig dirt and find wonder in tiny things that grow. I wait impatiently for 9:00 when Christian gets out the glasses to pour the drinks, and we ravenously eat crackers or paprika nuts while dinner cooks. We laugh about the day. Matthieu makes a gratin – again, and I hope it is well done (and does not contain pasta). I think about Thai food, and how I’m not sure they know what that is in Mellecey. I consider myself lucky to have variety. I eat cheese – copious amounts of it, all the while thinking how it always tastes better here, locked in some dark wood cabinet in a forgotten dining room with loaves of hard bread and cartons of milk that aren’t refrigerated. I sneak around the chateau and make secret movies. I wander the grounds and talk to the fish, and birds, and cows. I bring “salad” to the chickens and converse with the goats -- who are not sure what to think of me as they stare at me with their alien eyeballs. I sleep as I never sleep in America – in the bedroom of a princess with the trees singing me lullabyes goodnight. I push Balzan away from my bread at least 14 times in a meal – that stinky, naughty dog. I swear I won’t miss him but do when, on my last day, he won’t leave my side and is a perfect angel. I hold back tears in front of Christian and Matthieu as we say our goodbyes, and let them roll all the way back to Paris. In France, I am the self that I most want to be. I am happy.

This summer has been busy. So much so that I was less French than I hoped to be. So busy that all of a sudden, I am packing to leave for my favorite other place. At this time tomorrow, I'll be too excited to sleep, but wishing I could as the clock ticks by the minutes to departure. In the summer, I am blessed to be French.

I'll be posting as I can. Till then, a bientot!
Amy