I miss Ian.
We’ve been here for less than 24 hours and I’ve pulled two ticks out of loved ones--one from Ruby’s back and one from Esther’s belly button.
Already I am realizing the getting used to that not having Ian’s adept hands to remove ticks without severing heads will require. Could I ever get used to it. Will I?
And what of culture shock?
The radio this morning--noise, noise, noise coming from it. All that loud, ugly talk. The ads. Where is my beloved VPR? How could it be that I cannot remember the frequency? And don't get me started about the cereal aisle at Hannaford's. And what of all those friendly people treating us like best friends at the shoe store?
I hadn't realized just how much I tuned out in France. When you are not living in your own language you might as well be living behind glass. Everything is slightly muted, muffled. It's so easy to listen but not listen to the radio or television in French. It is impossible to tune out American radio. It punches you in the face while assaulting your ears.
And it's so easy to be invisible, even while shopping. Not in America you don't.
We've settled in, sort of, to my parents' cabin in the woods. We'll stay here until our tenants move out at the end of the month. This is our halfway house. Our limbo. Our island.
I haven’t unpacked our bags yet. I am curious how long it will take me to do that. There is a symbolic aspect to actually taking our things out of our wheely bags and putting them in stationary bureaus that I’m not ready to reckon with just yet. I’m not here. I’m here.
My body is here. My brain, like a large ungainly turkey, is still flapping its reluctant, corpulent way across the Atlantic, trying to catch up with me.
And my computer is still fighting with my camera. It won't recognize or acknowledge it. Won't give it the time a day.
I am lost without the ability to import my photos. I have so many good ones and they are being held captive. Has anyone experienced full- on, random, digital -camera rejection by a MacBook?
It's not like the MacBook and the camera are strangers. Suddenly, one day in England, they just decided to become incompatible. Life is unpredictable like that, I guess.
So I have decided to revisit, one last time, some of my final glimpses of France.
|Louis and Marie were in residence at Versailles.|
|If Bilbo Baggins had been French...|
|Thought the Pantheon was in Rome...|
|A place for the Boule players to hang their coats.|
|Bacchus, I think.|
|Even the sculptures in Paris are in love.|
|I'm going to miss mannequins with nipples.|
|Our last morning in France.|
|Finally figured out what café gourmand was.|
|The last supper was somehow more delicious than anything I have eaten in France before.|