One beautiful, unseasonably warm winter day, an american, a french/german, an italian, a greek and a serbian/greek ex-Parisian go to the marché aux puces in Lyon. That's me and my friends.
The flea market is not that inspiring. I find a funky pitcher, 2 benetiers and a faience madonna to add to my collection. I am really looking for the perfect commode, a dresser that will fit in the bedroom. I have been looking for 2 years. The sun peeks in and out as we walk around. It feels like almost Spring and voices are high with excitement. We all want to break out.
I keep wondering why I have never managed to live in a warm place. I wonder why I never moved to Marseille or Nice. Lyon, an improvement over New York by far, is still too cold for me. And yet here, this prematurely warm sunny day, I feel intoxicated. We sit in a local café as everyone begins to pack up their wares. We eat poorly, drink a few glasses of unmemorable wine, laugh, tease. Music seeps out of a café nearby and we are like snakes in the sun—immobile, lazy, slow, content. I feel drugged and so good, soaking up those rays, forgetting the long list of tasks I have lined up the week ahead of me. We follow the music and end up inside the local café/bar where the antique dealers wrap up their day. They all seem to know each other. It's a mixed crowd but we still stand out a bit, not locals. The music plays and we can't help but be drawn into the swirl. It's a springtime drug. I'm addicted.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Language of Love...Basic French
BY DEBORAH P. SOBELOFF
That was the year Josh and I decided to argue
in French, a language we didn't know
enough of to lie in. We only knew the present
tense, the infinitives. There was no
conjugation--we or I. No decisions
to be made--her or me.
I could say table, bed,
but not ask what happened--a relief
not to know or to know my fears
correct. We loved the conversation
that could go on and on with two words:
Ça va. He sang the Marseillaise to me in bed.
It gave me goose bumps.
Our meals became prayers
hastened with bon apetit, the fear of bon voyage.
In English, I could make the whole
room spin around one word, make an hour
of tears over the inflection of one syllable. In French,
it was obvious we were ridiculous,
fallible, together. We were back in school.
Copyright © 2009
Monday, February 01, 2010
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