The Holiday

I cannot help as I am typing the title of this entry to think of this wonderful (cheesy?) Hollywood installment that came out three years ago, and sports the same exact title.
"The Holiday".

3 reasons for that:
- it was on TV last Saturday at the gym, and when you suffer willingly on the treadmill for 45 minutes your brain seems to really suck everything in like a thirsty sponge...the images still very clearly float in front of my eyes, in the most taunting, excruciating of ways.
Season spirit.
Oy.
- I saw the movie for the first time (and the only time in its totality) on Christmas Day 2006 with my mom, my step-dad and my little brother. That was the last time I was in France, and it seems like an eternity ago. I was still single, a student and slim(mer). Before judging us on our questionable taste in movies you have to know that the four of us at home without anything constructive to do is the perfect recipe for disaster and a collective nervous breakdown. So I would take anything over the inevitable staring contest that follows too many days spent together in a small apartment.
Even a money-making movie in a gigantic multiplex that reeks of popcorn. Yes. It is a reality, even in my hometown.
- I know I am crazy and God forbid she reads this - but Cameron Diaz reminds me of my lovely friend Paige, with whom I am going to spend quite some time until the end of the year (gal, you don't know what you got yourself into. Just sayin'.) She doesn't really look like her, even though she is tall, blonde and have killer teeth - I mean smile. 'Cause she has never torn anybody to pieces with her powerful and extra white canines to my knowledge, but she is quite the gentlemen-killer when she cracks a smile. If you don't believe me just ask Mr M. who daily claims his love to her in every cute way possible. Anyway - the resemblance is not so much physical than it is behavioral: same enthusiasm, facial expressions, ample movements and bursts of laughing voice.
Well - not quite 'same' but you got the drill.
She is....jovial. And it is contagious. And that's why I love her.

So yes, the holiday season is here and it is all well and good.
But if it is the time to be merry, jolly and all ta-la-la-la it is NOT the time to write. Several people told me recently: "Ha! You didn't keep up with your blog!" in a way that paranoiac me took as a challenging your-little-blogging-fluke-didn't-last-long-after-all.
I told them, and more importantly tell myself, that I cannot be creative in more than one way at the time. It may be sad and relegates me to the rank of single-focused men (oh dear! what would the ladies of The L Word think of that?) but the fact is - I cannot.
I made my Christmas cards, some pieces of jewelry, cookies, jams, menus. Christmas shopped, wrapped presents and even got my teeth cleaned and filled.
I didn't write.
I am ok with it.

So the only thing I can say - write - for now is that I wish all of you readers the most wonderful holiday season. May it be filled with love, joy, warmth and friendship. I'll be around next year to tell you more crosswords stories. That's a promise.

****************

Jordan, if you read this - please leave a little note. I cannot wait to meet you soon and tell you how crazy I am about "Long Way Down"!

To Your Credit

"Remember that credit is money"

This little wonder of a statement wasn't uttered by a CEO of a major financial institution; nope - Chase is not even to blame for that one. Surprising, I know.
Believe it or not (and you American citizens may all know this valuable piece of information; in that case I do apologize most sincerely; I really don't want to waste your time: I heard it's money too) the author of the quote is one of the Founding Fathers of America, the beloved and awfully hair-styled, the one and only Benjamin Franklin.

He had to be some kind of visionary, or was struck by genius or something (living in such close proximity to thunder had to have some side effects, right?). Had he known that his future countrymen would so blindly follow his lead, he would have thought twice about what he was saying. Or twirl his tongue in his mouth seven times (French exercise recommended by grandmas and political advisers all over the board before you start talking. Exhausting but effective.)

So let me tell you a little bit about my experience with credit. No long financial talk (I would be totally incapable and most of all, unwilling to do so) and no miserable stories (not yet at least), just a few anecdotes to share...no worries.

Meet Sandra, former colleague of mine. On her first trip to IKEA (the mandatory thing to do when you arrive in a new city, especially in Chicago where you have the luxury of choice: Northern or Western suburbs? It determines your whole future so please pick carefully) she found herself confronted to a riddle. Something so big and incomprehensible that she was at loss for words (which didn't seem to happen very often according to the people who knew her much better than me. I believe them.)
The scene takes place at the check-out line; it's time to pay. Sandra opens her wallet to get her card.
IKEA Cashier: Credit or Debit?
Sandra: ...............
IKEA Cashier (slightly annoyed): Credit or Debit?
Sandra (looks at Mireille, her driver and co-shopper for the day, for help. She doesn't understand a word, or rather understands the words but cannot make anything of them. Sweat begins to pearl at her eyebrows, her heart beats faster. She mutters): uhhhhh....I dunno...really...I just have a blue card.
IKEA Cashier (out of her mind): Honey, I don't care if your card is blue, red or yellow. I just want to know if you want to pay credit or debit. OK?!?!?

I am sure that just like Sandra, you now need a few words of explanation.
French people have a much simpler relationship with means of payment; we have of course old hard cash, checks and cards. ONE TYPE OF CARD that we use to withdraw money from the ATM (or distributeur automatique) AND pay for whatever we buy, wherever we buy it. It can be Visa or Mastercard (aren't we an advanced civilization. FYI the electronic chip on cards - a basic security feature - is a French invention. So please shut up and let me go on with my story); but back in the days everybody had a carte bleue or blue card; most people still refer to their debit card as 'blue card' (which is indeed very often blue, as in the color. Just sayin'.)
Hence her reply.
The question for her didn't make any sense. There is one and only one way to pay with your card, and you really insist on names that would be 'debit'. You hand your card, the machine takes your money right there and now (or at least in the amount of time it takes to process the transaction) and you are done. No question asked; no hassle; no existential crisis.
Plus - you don't even have to decide between plastic or paper. French supermarkets are remarkably sweet and understanding towards their stressed out, tired and grumpy customers.

So the first trip to the grocery store comes as a surprise to most Frenchies, totally oblivious of the wicked and tortuous ways of the American financial system.
I still remember mine. Since I was by myself and didn't want to be spotted as a newbie who didn't know anything about the world, I chose blindly: 'debit', I said. That was easy: I had been told my whole life (at night time along with my prayers) that credit was a bad thing for you. The mere utterance of the word was enough to keep me away from it- and for quite a while.

So imagine my surprise when one day, someone took the time to sit down with me to try and explain that here, in Uncle Sam's country, the country of freedom, opportunity, big cars and gigantic candy bars, credit was actually something to pursue. You NEED credit. If you want to buy a car, a house or anything of importance you need to be able to show off a good credit history in order to get a better rate. In short, you need to show that you are able to successfully manage preexistent debts in order to be allowed to get more in debt.
Implacable logic.
I was lost.

It took me years and a banker-boyfriend to really understand what that was all about. But even now I still cannot believe that you can build a viable economy on such a flawed system. I guess that the last year or so has proved its limits but it hasn't shaken it to its roots. Credit is still desirable and sought after. I, for one, carry five credit cards. I keep my balances to a minimum, pay them on time and therefore has a credit score labeled as 'good'. I am still not quite sure of what it entails at the end of the day, and I am fine with it.

One day, when I am American - I'll get it.

Big is beautiful? or The Misadventures of a French Gal in the US

"French Women Don't Get Fat"

Even though it annoys the hell out of me every time I walk into a Borders and see the long-legged, scarved fashionista being dragged by her caniche (that would be a poodle, the world's most disgusting dog. Please don't ask me why, and don't be offended) on the cover of the book, I have always been damn curious about it. And yet, for some reason - never even laid my hands on it.

Because it's a lie. A patent one.
Yes, Mireille Guiliano (who dares sharing the same first name that my bestie) I claim it high and loud: you are simply NOT telling the truth.
And thee should be ashamed of thee self.

Now that I am writing this blog entry I actually opened another window with the culprit's website. She is thin (duh!), sports a bob haircut à la Mireille Darc (Google her) and is obviously loaded. Former CEO of Clicquot, Inc. and spokesperson of the prestigious Champagne Veuve Clicquot for more than 20 years she is married to the president of the New York Institute of Technology. Not exactly the girl next door but who pretends none-the-less that she can help any woman out there.
Already sounds terribly flawed as a line of argumentation. At least to me.

So interested anyway (even if slightly annoyed) I click on "Read an excerpt". It's the book introduction, of course. The two-page spiel that is supposed to get you hooked and dying to buy the next 200 hundred or so in order to gain a little Frenchness that is apparently such a hot commodity on this side of the Atlantic (yes, it is. Think of all the French-labeled things out there...French dressing? French cut green beans? French vanilla? French fries? and so on. None of them are French, by the way. Sorry to be a killjoy.)
Our fabulous friend begins by talking about the infamous 'French paradox' (one eats like a pig and remains the size of a chick) and goes on by talking about her fabulous life and how the poor little thing she is is 'required to eat in restaurants about three hundred times a year' for twenty years, 'always a glass of wine or Champagne at [her] side'. Tough life indeed; I can immediately relate to her and so do you, right?
But then she says something that attracts my attention; she mentions, drama-queen way, that she 'suffered a catastrophe that [she] was totally unprepared for: a twenty pound catastrophe'.
OK, so now you are talking.......

And, sure enough, the end of the world happened when she was an exchange student in the US.
Here we are.

My personal 'catastrophe' is of such epic proportion that our delicate and sophisticate author could probably not stomach it: in the 8 years I lived over here I gained something close to 40 pounds. Typing this number is almost a surreal experience; even with the size 2 pants deeply buried in my closet I cannot imagine that I used to be so much lighter. I do feel a little bit bloated and uncomfortable in my skin but do not consider myself as overweight. I believe I have a womanly figure, rather on the plump side, sure, but you know, nothing out of hand.
The scary thing is - at 118 pounds I still thought the same.
That would be MY French paradox.

Thinking back on it I really cannot believe it. It's even hard for me to remember how I truly looked like. It's almost like thinking about another person. But every so often I come across a picture, a former dress or bra and then I grasp the extent of my 'transformation'. But - weirdly enough - never when I look in the mirror.

Why?!?!?!?

I thought about this matter many times, because whether you like it or not it's what women do. I wondered what it was about my gain weight that made it so easy to live with. And honestly - it's a rather difficult question. As a French woman in France I always ate a lot. I was known for my appetite, my solide coup de fourchette as we like to say; I was never one to quibble with my food. And I never exercised. EVER. After leaving high school and mandatory gym classes I never practiced any sport. Never ran. Never even pushed the doors of a gym*.
And yet I apparently had this model figure that I never appreciated. I never realized that my body was slim, fit and inside the limited boundaries of 'beauty standards'.
Sucks, huh?!?!?
When I first came to the US I was still feeling awkwardly self-conscious of my shape(s). But I quickly found out that others found it attractive. I had never been so courted in my life. I slowly started feeling good about myself, and show more of my body. It became a source of pride and pleasure and I often associate my first year in Connecticut with my birth as a true woman.

It felt exhilarating.
But it didn't last that long. After two years in Chicago, and meeting this RH guy who was to become my husband, I started piling on the pounds. And didn't stop. My mom - who was herself traumatized in her youth by nasty comments on her weight - even told me that I was getting fat. She was shocked. And so was I.
I do eat a lot, still. But I am trying to compensate my love for food (and booze, which I have to say is a new component of the whole puzzle) by - horror!!! - going to the gym on a very regular basis. I ran two 5K this year, and am planning on getting ready for a half-marathon next Fall. I lift weights, do crunches, squats and curls. Even push-ups. A good little soldier, not at all a proper French lady who is supposed to magically keep her figure, 'without a sweat'.

But I still cannot keep the damn kilos away.
So is it the aging, the bad influence of my American companion, the lack of hormonal balance, the products of a wicked food industry that adds corn syrup to everything and anything or the effect of climate change?!? Maybe my ways have just become sluggish, and wheels too often replace my once strong and powerful legs... I am not really sure, and it doesn't really matter. Today I am wearing tweed shorts and sexy tights, and I feel good about myself. Probably the most important feeling in the world.

And I closed down the Mireille window, deciding to forgive her for her lies and keep going my ways.
Thanks anyway.


________________________
* I have to say here that this is not entirely true; I used to swim quite often and almost daily when I was writing my master's thesis in 2000. Doing backstroke for an hour or so was my way of relaxing and trying to put my ideas in order; something bout the breathing.... This discipline helped me to write my 100+ pages in three months, get my degree with honors and be published in academic journals. Not bad I guess.

The Teaching Game

When I realize that I have been teaching for almost 10 years now, I get a little scared.
First - because time goes by so fast.
Second and foremost - because if I never knew what I wanted to do as a grown-up, I have always known what I didn't want to be: a teacher. And I remember being consistently quite vocal about it since I was 6.

Now that I have been living in the skin of the impostor for a decade I can't help looking back on all these years where I believed that being on the other side of the border would be the end of me. Like - the death of my soul or something. I was thinking back then that becoming a teacher would be synonymous with failure. The sure sign that I would not have been able to find my way, a job, a real career to pursue and thrive in; becoming a teacher was like never leaving the student world and that simple fact was damn depressing. So I chose the high way and looked up to foreign politics, law and diplomacy.
I didn't last long.

I got my first teaching job in the Fall of 2000. I had just finished my master's degree, was not sure of what the next step should be and had to earn money since my boyfriend back then had to leave his - guess what? - teaching job to serve in the army (10 months of military service in the music section. Such a treat.) So I got into the system and become overnight a Latin sub for a posh junior high in a chic suburbs.

Weirdly enough I don't remember much about my very first time. I was nervous alright but I cannot quite recall what was going through my head as I was climbing up the stairs to my 3rd floor classroom. Nobody had really told me what to do; I had no book, no experience, no training and I was supposed to teach a bunch of 11-15 year olds grammar rules that nobody in their right mind cared about. That was sort of challenging, not to mention petrifying. Cursing myself inside for not proceeding with yoga I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Things went well. I was a demanding teacher and found out that students liked that. Giving hard tests was a way to acknowledge their analytical and logical abilities; they were grateful. Talking about the Antique world was not as foreign and irrelevant as I had feared; we sometimes engaged in deep discussions of current events and I remember discussing quite passionately the American elections with my 9th graders.
Being a sub I was sent on 'missions'. After the posh establishment came the rural and oh so sweet school close to the Luxembourg border, and the difficult high school in the project. After a year in the French system of secondary education I had had a taste of pretty much everything it had to offer, and even if I tremendously enjoyed my interactions with the young crowds I hated my colleagues and their closeted thinking.
I was ready for a change, and had set myself for a big one.

Teaching here has of course been a whole other experience. New country, new rules, new environment. Keeping in mind that you are dealing with students who are also - and sometimes foremost - customers. What a world of difference. I had to forget the French ways to embrace new ones, quite happily sometimes: our habits of systematic belittlement have always revolted me. But I have to admit that making everyone believe that all their ideas are brilliant and worth listening to is almost as irking. But when in Rome...
I am still surprised today to realize that I do love teaching. Not only because of what I can bring to the ones who are sitting across from me but also for the job itself makes for me, makes OF me. I used to be the shiest person in the world. Hot flashes, wet palms, stuttering, yep: that was me all the way. So that first day when I was getting ready to push the door to face the most dreaded public that can be - a room of hormone-loaded teenagers - you can only imagine my stress level. But facing kids worked wonders: it helped me to get out there, and stop giving a fuck about what people might think of me, my butt, the stain in my blouse or the leaf of parsley stuck in my teeth. I am now enjoying the representation part of the teaching job so much that I am going to miss the character I slowly forged along the years. Miss Labenheim, strict but fun and upbeat is not entirely me. Teaching is a lot like role playing: I enter the classroom like I enter the stage. I educate and I entertain; I am the master and the fool, I impose the rules and make fun of them. Sounds like a delicate balance, and it is. But I blossom in it and hardly ever gets tired of the game. It comes with challenges, like introducing debate in French 203 through the theme of death penalty, the legalization of cannabis or the blatant inequality in French political life. Heavy stuff that can be handled through the absurd because, well, it's the only way to really handle them in a language class. Comparative merits of the guillotine over the ax execution? No longer a secret for us. Slang terms for marijuana and cannabis? We have a long list of them. Detailing French congressmen outfits and ranking them by 'hotness level'? Betcha.

I learned so much on myself by teaching to others. I am going to miss my schooling persona, for sure but I am now ready to let it go and face at last the REAL world.
Next year.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

I used to sing these words out loud, alone in my bedroom. Walkman in hand, earphones carefully positioned, probably holding whatever would remotely look like a microphone (hair brush? pen case? a super cute retractable dotted umbrella? you name it. I had it)

I liked U2 alright. Séverine, my best friend at the time, had the biggest crush on Bono (she fancied really weird-looking guys. Gary Oldman was definitely her worst pick. She loved him in Dracula, which makes the whole thing even creepier....right? She ended up marrying a selfish prick, and never spoke to me again) and since we were spending together quite a lot of time hanging out aimlessly, teenager-way - I had to listen to Achtung Baby, The Joshua Tree, Rattle and Hum. And War.

Sunday Bloody Sunday particularly spoke to me. The real meaning of the song escaped me for a long time because instead of listening to the actual lyrics (which I would have had to read previously, my understanding of sung English being pretty limited at the time) I was focusing on the title. For me the cool Irish dudes were just like me: they hated Sundays with their guts. So much so that they had written a song about it!!!!!!
I was feeling in total harmony with them. Soul mates?
Of course later when I learned that the song was in fact referring to the Derry events of 1972 I felt pretty stupid. But that is another story.

Since we are in the magical realm of music there is indeed a French song that I should have adopted as a personal hymn: "Je hais les dimanches" (I hate Sundays) by Juliette Greco. But I didn't really know about it since, you know, she is WAY less exciting and sensational than contemporary rock'n roll.
Still - she was unto something.

Sundays for me have always been the worst day of the week, and not only because Mondays come immediately after. Since I was 6, every other week, I had to go to my dad's for the weekend and that was torture enough. I don't want to talk about him here but without going into much detail let's just say that the aforementioned mention of 'selfish prick' is wonderfully appropriate to qualify the character.
Then - there is the whole desperation of French Sundays.

If you never have been subjected to it the phenomenon is really difficult to describe. Being in Paris one Sunday doesn't count; not only is ONE SINGLE Sunday not even close enough to qualify as an experience in French misery but Paris is, like everything else, an exception. To understand the full concept one has to get himself lost in one of the innumerable smaller cities that constitute most of the country, and patiently stay there all day long. It's only after the last bakery closes around 1pm that things get really bad.
All of a sudden you are transported in the middle of nowhere. No man's land. Emptiness. Desert. If we could have them tumbleweeds would invade the streets.
Seriously.
Everything is still closed on Sundays. Stores are required by law to shut their doors except for the glorious 3 or 4 in December when it is allowed for them to make business with Santa. The fact that it does not make ANY sense in a country where Church and State have been separated since 1905 doesn't seem obvious to our law makers. Or maybe they choose to keep it for the sake of old tradition and blablablah but still I keep wondering when everybody is going to come to their senses and stop this non-sense (pun intended).

So you would think that having lived in the 24/7 USA for eight years now I have come to terms with my Sunday hatred.
Well....not even close.

I was thinking about it no longer than two days ago - a Sunday. Now that I can go to the pharmacy, the mall, the gun shop any time of the week - even Sunday at 3am/pm if I wish - I should be totally fine, right? Sorry to say - I am not. But I cannot really figure out why. Is it only the sheer force of habit? In that case it would be really sad and incredibly depressing to think of me as an old owl so set in her routine she is unable to evolve, even at 25.
I don't know what's about it. But there IS something. Like a sort of pressure. The implicit rule that people have to have fun on Sundays, even more so in English than in French where one is definitely not allowed not to make the most of one glorious Day of Sun.
I don't like being told what to do. Like these first few days of Spring where nature offers an indecent display of its wonders and people are elated and won't shut up about it. I usually beg to differ. Season changes affect me deeply, in a bad way. I can't help it. But most of the time I cannot even voice my opinion without being labeled as an unwelcome killjoy who is unable to enjoy life's beauty.
Which is entirely unfair and totally false.
I need time.

So despite the splendor of brunch and bottomless mimosas I will probably never hold Sundays close to my heart. I came to terms with this last Sunday when I decided that I wanted to celebrate the end of the day with a mighty good meal, French style. You know - just to close the Sunday loop.
Having dinner at Cafe Matou with my two favorites biches was a wonderful way to deal with my Sunday blues. All the flavors of my childhood were on the plate, wine was being poured in glasses, tastebuds were satisfied. I had the best meal I have had in a long time, and part of the perfection pertained to the time of the week.
Magic happens; it was Sunday night, and I was happy.

Cheeeeese!!!!

Warning: this - is not a posting on this type of 'food prepared from the pressed curd of milk, often seasoned and aged' (dry dictionary definition. My words would be more along the lines of:
'the best thing ever created by man since the beginning of times, so good in fact that it might be the only and ultimate evidence that there is a good-natured supreme being above us. And she is female'. But then again I am not paid to write entries in the American Heritage® Dictionary, or any other one for that matter...)

I have to say that it would be damn tempting. And interesting. Appetizing. Drool-inducing. And probably too much to handle for someone who is on a good pace to lose a fraction of the pounds she gained over the last 3 years of couple food debauchery.
(The cover of the RedEye read last week: "My boyfriend makes me fat". I wanted to kiss that girl for sharing my misery.)
Truth is - I absolutely adore cheese. All of them. At all temperatures, with anything, any day of the year. It took me a little while to become an addict but once I started there was no going back. I even learned to master - at the venerable age of 9 - the stinky Munster of my home region (which has nothing to do with its American homophone) by eating it while plugging my nose. Patented technique that I would recommend to anyone planning a trip to the Vosges.

Anyway - cheese has been the longest love story of my life. Well - with chocolate and pasta. Imagine the desolation that washed over me the first time I stopped in front of the cheese aisle in a supermarket lost in the middle of the Connecticut forest. Big Y, Mansfield Road. My heart must have skipped a few beats, and color leave my face.
If one day I am not to live in a city anymore, I want my own herd of cows, goats and sheep and produce my own fix.
No other way.

But I am digressing since I said that cheese was not the subject of the day.
Teeth are.
Yeah....cheese....smile....you know...
Cheesy, I know.

I am going to the dentist next week. Nothing major - just a cleaning, probably a little cavity to fix. And the dreaded discourse on my gums.
See - my gums are not in the best shape of their life. They are getting old, bloody at times and tired of supporting their alloted pieces of enamel. Gingivitis runs in the family, what can I say. My mom had to have her teeth pulled out a couple of years ago - good, strong and healthy teeth. Lots of tears of frustration and shame. You see the picture.
All this because we French don't believe in floss.
I had never flossed up until 3 years ago. We never talk about it. It's not taboo - no, you DO find floss in pharmacies all over the country - but it never crosses anybody mind to actually buy the thing, let alone USE it. Must be for tourists. Even dentists discourage you from doing so.
"Don't do this, it's bad for your gums" I was told one day, staring at the ceiling and trying not to choke on the latex fingers tickling the bottom of my throat.
Oh cool, I thought at the time. One less thing to worry about.

The first time I went to a hygienist in Chicago I got a horrified reaction as soon as I opened my mouth. Talk about a boost of self-confidence, huh. I have always known that I was not blessed with a blinding Hollywood smile, but still...come on...
She almost fainted when I told her my floss history.
I left her office with a couple of toothbrushes, toothpaste, Listerine and about 5000 yards of menthol floss.

So now of course, I do it. Not as religiously as natives because I am not good at picking up new habits (um-umm). Maybe it's because I want to remain true to my homeland where people are supposedly dirty,stinky and just overall disgusting. Or is it because I am just a little bit lazy ?
The truth is - I will never be a true American gal with nice, pearly, perfectly aligned toothies despite 3 years of braces and a pretty good dental hygiene. That's how you can spot me in the crowd: bottom teeth slightly crooked and overlapping, enamel more beige than white and a lot of gum showing when I am flashing you a big smile. That's me, Aurore the French with her imperfect teeth, always somewhat self-conscious around her more perfect-toothed friends but who learned to live with it as she did with the rest of her flaws.

I postponed my appointment three times already.
No more pushing back.
Time to be a big girl and lay on the chair.
I'll keep you updated.

Borders

I know it happens and is unfailingly there, luring in a corner.
It came this week, and as always I was - am - unprepared for it.
It's often a matter of time; sometimes an unexpected trigger does the trick. Pressure release. Then the building up starts all over again.

A walk in the neighborhood worked small wonders two days ago.

Boots on, camera on the go - I just wanted to get coffee in my favorite little joint, Z&H (pronounced 'a la French' "Zed et Hasch" please). Crisp air and a jolt of caffeine were the elected remedies of the hour to fight the dreaded anti-matter.
As soon as I stepped out though I realized that I wanted more.
Was it the strap around my neck, the sunlight playing on the leaves or the solemnity of my thoughts? I decided here and there that I wanted to celebrate my surroundings. Discover all their secret beauties. Unveil their overlooked treasures to the world. Let the ugly sister - the
forgotten, neglected, slandered one - rightfully shine.


As I was strolling among the impressive mansions of Kenwood I remembered the first words I really wrote about the neighborhood. It was under the form of a Yelp Review on Promontory Point. A pleading for the South Side:

Chicago suffers from one terrible plague.
One cannot immediately see it when one walks or drives around the city.
But they are there.
The invisible lines.
The "last" frontiers.
The streets one cannot cross without losing their neat and proper Northside identity (and God forbid, their wallet) : Western and Roosevelt.
Let's say California and 18th street for the bravest souls.

That is such a shame.
As an outsider I will never understand why people in this city are so closed-minded. I have been living in the infamous South Side for a few years now, gone to school there for longer than I'd want to and I am still alive, in one piece, safe and sound, thank you very much.

Guys, here are some news:
The other half of the city is worth the trip. And by "trip" - I don't mean an endless bus/train/horse-carriage ride.

Hyde Park - for one - is pretty well mapped out by the CTA and hosts a few crowned jewels: my building (uh-hmm), a few Frank Lloyd Wright houses, a pretty famous intellectual box where fun comes to die, the president house, and a lot of other hidden treasures.
And the Point.

So yes, of course some sad or mean-spirited people will tell you that the Point is not that idyllic or charming. Gosh, there are rats running out there!!!!!! Really?!?!? A natural park by the lake with rats? I can hardly believe it........I heard you can also encounter bees, flies and ants....so beware.

But really Promontory Point is one of the best spots in the city to host a bbq, an impromptu picnic or just to relax after a long bike ride.
And to jump in the water for a swim.

Some of the things I like about it:
- you have a kick-ass view of the city skyline. Almost unobstructed. Pretty sweet IMO.
- FREE parking!!!!!!!!! Yes - you read that right. There is a full free parking lot exclusively reserved for the Point AND lots of free street parking on 55th street and around. No millions of quarters needed.
You've got to love it. South Side perk, guys!!!
- bbq pits, lots of garbage bins, coal disposals = perfect for all the grill fanatics out there.
- drinking foutains!!! My fave is just at the entrance - after the underpass. It's is a nice sleeping deer - I call it "The bi-biche statue". Those of you who know me will know why it's close to my heart....
- 2 watering holls nearby : Bar Louie and The Cove. Winners!!!!!!!!!!
Nothing better than cold beer to heal your sunburns .
- lots of grass and trees. Shade or sun, you choose. A lot of space to play frisbee, volley-ball, badminton, or to improve the Guiness World Record of pit spitting. Whatever you are into.
- one of the most diverse crowd of the city. Spotted last weekend: shirtless U of C students lost in their textbooks (a rarity - well, the shirtless part at least), families grilling and dancing to Michael Jackson (RIP), couples cuddling on patchwork blankets, frat boys trying to impress the girls around, little kids learning how to ride their bikes, older dudes coming for their daily swims. Black, white, Asian and everything in between.
Love the rainbow.
- a great spot to swim. No beach but rock access to the lake. Makes it more adventurous and give you the chills!!!
- bathroom access
- excellent bride spying-spot (!!!)

It's all worth it.
Go and enjoy.

I remember wanting to shut up all the loud mouths who kept saying that they would never set foot in the South Side for fear of being shot. I knew of course that that was incredibly naive and childish and probably really limited 'range-of-action-wise' but I still wrote it. And posted it. 104 people found it useful, cool and/or funny according to cryptic Yelp criteria.
And it was even voted ROTD (review of the day) on September 2nd.
Some people out there were, are ready to listen.

But I am probably only preaching to (already) converts. The ones that do live around here, even deeper south if possible (yep, it is and it doesn't make you die); the ones that work here, in our desolated part of the city where everything seem to be so different.
I am not going to repeat what I wrote about the Point, and our 'half' of the city. But I am still not over the narrow-minded people I come across each and every day. This segregation de facto that is so ingrained in their minds just doesn't make the slightest sense to me.

To say that we don't have to face the same problems in France would be a lie. Of course we do - and if you fly to Charles de Gaulle you will most probably be welcomed be the grisly Northern Parisian banlieues. Long bars of buildings, tags on the walls, a general feeling of abandon and despair that is hard to pin down with words. The banlieues are our ghettos. Broadly speaking.
But what is totally fascinating here - in the worse sense of the word - is the clean-cut delimitation of things. One side of the street is good, the other is evil. One is white, the other black. Getting off at the Austin station on the green line tells the whole tale: Austin in the boulevard that delimits Oak Park from the city of Chicago. West of it - Frank Lloyd Wright and young Hemingway, bourgeois families and young professionals in search of living space. East - the last stretch of what is surely one of the worse parts of town. Going down the steps from the platform to the street was the beginning of the partition. At the bottom, two lines would clearly emerged - and each one would go its own way without as much as looking at the other.
That happened every day of the 10 months I lived there.

Hyde Park is different. Borders still exist - and unmistakably so. Most people won't go west of Cottage Grove, north of 47th and south of 61st. It's an unspoken rule at the university. But still Hyde Park is an exception to the 'rule' of American urban neighborhoods (and as an avid reader of Loic Wacquant I am painfully aware of how schematic all this is) in the sense that it hosts an extremely diverse community. Races, social backgrounds, educations, nationalities - it's almost the epitome of the melting pot. A simple trip to the produce mart sums it all. It's incredible to witness, and the richness of its people constitutes one of the reasons why I came to love it so much.

Hyde Park and his twin Kenwood are great places to live and take another pulse of the city. A slower one, less fancy, less glamorous but more real. And the mansions on Woodlawn and Greenwood, between the 51st and 47th streets have nothing to envy to the Lakeview ones. They are gorgeous. Rusting behind ivy, proudly showing off their red brick facades or the detailed craftsmanship of their wrought iron gates, the residences of Kenwood bask in their former and present glory. Yes, criminals do live here too and burglaries, assaults and murders are committed every year. But there is also this sense of peace I don't feel anywhere else in the city, a a sense of completion and authenticity that I deeply cherish.

I know I won't convince anyone who doesn't want to listen to come on the other side of the border. And I might even be happy about it. Because it makes it our own, and maybe we don't want to share it after all.

Addition: Autumn Collection

I knew it.
This particular vignette deserved its own entry though. I just love it that much.

Of course everybody says it. It's on all lips, on every electronic status update, on TV, in the magazines, even on the colorful billboards that punctuate suburban commutes: Fall is a celebration, let's all be in love with it and enjoy its bounties.
"Pumpkin patch and petting zoo!"
"Apple cider - just 10 minutes away!"
" Try our new Pumpkin Latte for only $3.99!"
" X really enjoys walking in the leaves in October"
...................

But really. Really, folks - experiencing Fall in America leads to a whole new appreciation of the season. The event in all its rustic simplicity (embedded in its very name), its elementary nature, its earthiness even - is something that I came to look forward to every year. An almost childish anticipation that I knew nothing about before crossing the pond.

Autumn - as we also say - comes and goes in general indifference in France. If anything it is acknowledged by disapproval sighs and shrugs of resignation (infamous, ubiquitous and oh so French, the shrug is a national landmark. It requires months - years - of training to perform an acceptable one that conveys just the right amount of defeatism and scoffing. A real art form). It starts officially with the bittersweet rentree des classes (back to school) right at the beginning of September. For children and parents alike it is synonymous with end of summer, or more accurately, end of vacation. The whole country is back to work after eight weeks of sluggish activity on the various coasts of the Hexagon sipping apéritif after apéritif with their friends Dédé (a silly nickname for André) and Marcel.
Note to potential tourists: August is the best month of the year to visit Paris. All the nasty, mean-looking Parisians are gone, summer sales are still around and hotels are cheap. Really.

September thus opens the door to a long and empty season where everybody is as bleak and dreary as the weather. My memories are filled with rain; Autumn is a long and continuous shower. No cleansing, redeeming downpours but insidious, stingy, bone-shivering drizzles. The atmospheric dépression penetrates each and every inch of you.
Even the joys of boot, tweed and plaid shopping are not sufficient to lift the moods. The inevitable chestnut battles in the school yards either.
The end of October signals the break of the quarter, and the only 'celebration' of the season: All Saints Day. The quoting marks are there to signify the sheer irony of the word since there is definitely nothing celebratory in the concept (well - if you accept the fact that it's a National Holiday thus synonymous with day OFF); it's Halloween redefined (hijacked?) by the Catholic Church. There are indeed cemeteries, and tombstones. But absolutely nothing spooky about them; you are simply embarked on a family journey whose sole purpose is to deposit flowers on every single last residence of people even remotely related to you. Because you know, every kid dreams of staring at wet, cold marbles with its name engraved in golden letters.
I take what I said back: it IS actually quite terrifying.

Then things perk up a little bit with Christmas preparation. Lights, animated shopping windows, St-Nicholas, and Christmas markets.
But as awesome as it is it's already Winter-y stuff.

So yes, I was not an Autumn addict to say the least.
But I have been converted to Fall.
Ever since my first one trapped in the woods of Central Connecticut.
I remember walking on the rural lanes surrounding my house, camera in hand, taking shots of colored trees and decorated doorsteps, spying fighting squirrels and listening to the crows. That Sunday afternoon the Indian Sumer of New England swept away my homesickness. Marveling at new wonders, discovering the sweetness of October, its colors, scents and (soon to be known) savors - I felt at ease. At home. Turning point if there was ever one: I decided right there and then that I wanted to stay and know more about this country who celebrated the joys of harvest season to the fullest. The irony didn't escape me: a country recognized around the world for the excellence of its gastronomy, and which proudly claims the pristine quality of its products had almost totally silenced its rustic roots, whereas the Enemy, the embodiment of corporation and mega-distribution, was embracing each year with a contagious enthusiasm the bounties of its soil.

This year I carved my pumpkin and drank spiked apple cider. Like a 10-year old I am excited to put together my first Halloween costume. When August dies away and summer clothing gives in to tights and coats I take solace in thinking of all the warmth still awaiting us. Fall to me means generosity, sharing and conviviality. Friends and family. A ever so sweet countdown to the winter harshness that I am so happy to be now a part of.
For many years to come.

You, us, them

Even though I have only been here for 6 years Chicago feels like home. Sweet, comfortable, warm and welcoming. Home.
And it did almost right away. It's challengingly hard to explain why, and even if it weren't I probably wouldn't try to.
Some things are best left unknown.
Unanalyzed.
Unscrutinized.
(you get the drill)

And yet - when I refer to 'home', I do not have Chicago in mind. My thoughts are usually focused on a far away land beyond the sea and the clouds. A land of cultural wonders, romance and magic. Of crusty bread, soft cheese and bubbly wine. A land of permanent gray skies, soiled sidewalks and post-structuralist theories. Of rampant racism, collective complaining and prevailing incivility.

A land I often long for but don't really miss on an everyday basis.
I assure you that yes - it does make sense.

Being an expat is probably one of the safest ways to flirt with absolute schizophrenia. No matter where you are, what you do or how you look at it - you are irremediably split in two. Sometimes in halves but more often than not - one part takes over without totally silencing the other one. The most obvious manifestation of this essential dualism of mine is my speech - English worded but definitely French sounding (at best; every now and again I am so incredibly confused that my words just collide in the two languages); but really it 'affects' my life on all possible levels.

AmeriFrench is my identity, and I happily and proudly sport it. Why shouldn't I?

Being AmeriFrench assures you the best of both worlds; it allows you to not have to always deal with the worst. Win-(half) win situation whose petty highlights (no downsides here) I would like to share a bit, free list form, just for the fun of it...


US Benefits:
- large coffees, lattes, chai and other hot delicacies; I do hate the skimpy little thimbles you receive at the oh so charming but often smoke-polluted cafés. If I want a shot - I prefer something....stronger?
- accessibility: you can get almost anything at any time. Delivered at your door if you wish. Such a huge convenience. And stores open on Sunday? Yes please! You still need to go to work the following day but not mourning all day long in deserted streets whose sole animation are church goers and people hurrying to the weekly family lunch makes a huge difference.
- breakfast and brunch fares......no additional comment is required. Heaven on a plate. Sometimes I just want to jump on a plane and export the concept. But then I stop and think, and realize that someone must have tried it before and totally failed. Next.
- fairly civil and disciplined crowds: people don't walk over your head to get into the bus before you. They don't (often) try to pass the lines just because. To survive in a waiting room in France you'd better have a padded jacket with extra elbow proof cushioning at the rib level.
- movies and books: being able to brag to your friends that you saw/read what they are going to have access to only months after? Truly priceless. And a bit cruel. Who cares?
- the freedom to walk in the street looking up: a huge privilege. Quite impossible, or at least pretty risky at home, sweet home. Wasted shoes are one thing...broken bones because of a slip - quite another.
- great tasting burgers and macaroni and cheese: oh yeah. I am not ashamed to say that my hips and I embrace a whole side of the most traditional American fare, and quite gladly so. Please don't tell.
- the grid system: best invention ever. I never got lost in an American city, and neither should anyone with an ounce of common sense. Now if only Chicago could get rid of its diagonal streets.

France benefits:
- UNIVERSAL HEALTH CARE
- a supposedly cute accent, and many silly anecdotes to talk and write about. I seem to thrive on cultural relativism...also helped quite a lot in the seduction department. But that is top-secret information.
- a solid base to a culinary education I of course keep expending; what better country to learn how to eat well? I have loved the 'plaisirs de la table' as long as I can remember....and will always do.
- the presence of history, everywhere you look. Old churches in every single village, ruins, landmarks....they give you a sense of permanence and belonging. Almost provide you with roots. And always allow your imagination to run wild and (re)create stories of the past.
- a baseball/football/hockey-free environment. Soccer is already enough to deal with, thank you very much. The Tour de France is a light price to pay in comparison to all the wasted-in-front-of-the-TV sport Sundays I hear about. 'Hear' being the key word here. And the mascots? I am not even going there...
- dairy products: galores of them. Yogurt obsessed? Search no longer and move in a French mega-supermarket. The choice is overwhelming. I. LOVE. IT. I even took a picture of the said aisle during my last trip three years (!) ago and was asked what was wrong with me. Didn't care - I had to document it. Seeing is believing.
- a pocket size country where you can go and play with all your Belgian, German, Swiss, Italian and Spanish neighbors in a matter of hours: best thing ever. OK, I forgot Luxembourg (as if it really mattered). And England since technically we are now joined together for better or for worse. But really all Europe is at your fingertips. Makes for weekends far more exciting than Wisconsin or Michigan. No offense kids.


If you were wondering: no - this is not by any mean an exhaustive list. Far from it. I am sure I forgot essentials, things I am probably so attached to I will curse myself for omitting. But I wanted this to be a snap-shot. A collection of vignettes I could occasionally add to but whose purpose was to tell my here-and-now/ici et maintenant.
Gotta love the blog format...

Blood matters

The other night at the opera Reuben whispered to my ear: "I would never sing that to my sister".
I giggled.
The picture of him on his knees proclaiming his borderline incestuous love was just hilarious.
Improbable Valentin to two impossible Marguerite(s).

And it's lucky. Because these two had for sure no healthy relationship.

But our lives aren't tragedy material either; at least not of the Goethe-worthy caliber. Faust hardly ever tells our story. Or does it? In any case its brotherly couple is just one extreme illustration in the ancestral book of family images. A classic one where hate and love speak the same language.
They speak though, even loudly at times.
In that respect - Valentin and Marguerite's relation singles out of most of the modern ones; these where reign silence and indifference. Sometimes balanced by a moment of complicity stolen at the end of a family dinner, or a shared laughter over some old baby picture.

The one he, Reuben, actually has.
The one I thought I would never have.

Many of my friends have privileged relationships with their siblings, and I envy them for that. The bond they share is beyond words; the intimacy - unrivaled. I always wanted to have an older brother who would look out for me (and provide me with friends to flirt with); an older sister I could confide in (and steal clothes from). Classic longing that wouldn't be worth talking about were it not for the fact that I am, and have been for almost 23 years now, a big sister.
And it seems like I am not doing a very good job.

My mom got pregnant with my half-brother when I was 10 years old. Until then I had actually never given a thought about any potential brother or sister. It made me happy and excited; she was supposed to be Aline, look up to me and blindly follow my lead. Even the ultra-sound had said so.
It turned out that Remi showed up on March 6, 1987. He was a little over 3kg. When my step dad called around 6 am to tell us (mamie had stayed the night with us; it was also her birthday) the news, I yelled to the phone: "Put him back, I don't want him!", dropped the phone and stormed out of the room.
Everything was forgotten when I saw his little shrimp head at the maternity. He was cute, fragile and ready to be taken care of.

I have lots of fond memories of our first few years together. At first I was a little scared to handle him but quickly learned how to change diapers, prepare formula and sterilize bottles. I was quite the little mom, and was awfully proud of it. I had to entertain Remi during his meals because he was such a picky, slow eater; I learned how to fake sneezing to make him burst out laughing and even recorded him one evening with all the family around.
Later I would come back from school, gulp down my lunch and play with him to the last minute before heading back for the afternoon. I would push him around on his fire truck; we would pretend to be cast away in a remote island after a storm; I would tickle him until he asked for mercy.
Things were not always as smooth though; when he turned 1 or so we began sharing the same room. He would throw me his slippers from his bed; giggle until midnight and fake sleeping when his dad would come in the room; tear down my posters from the wall; spill a bottle of black drawing ink on my comforter and a week worth of homework. I am sure he would deny everything today. I got upset so many times that my parents really started looking for a bigger place for us to move into.
Funnily enough he was devastated to get his own room.
It didn't last.

We stayed close, even living a hallway apart. He went to kindergarten, then to 1st grade. I accompanied him to his doctors appointments, read books to him, teased him about his girlfriends. It was a lot of fun.
I left home when I was 19 to go to school to Bordeaux. Came back after a year. Moved in my own apartment which was only a 10-minute walk away. He would stop by after school to do his homework (I promise that I never spilled anything on it); we would go the the movie theater together; we would even indulge sometimes in sleep-overs. He was slowly growing up; but still close, within reach.

He was 14 when I left for the US in 2001, and things were to change dramatically.
Of course it was meant to be. It's tough to maintain a distance relationship - especially for me. I pleaded guilty of the 'out of sight, out of mind' crime many times. But I never thought that even thousands of miles could do us wrong.
It did. My brother is now a grown up man that I hardly know. I cannot even think of him as a man, as annoying as it must be to him. In my eyes he is still 14; he doesn't drink, doesn't have sex and cannot have his heart broken. Yet he does, and he can but I don't know much about it. Only bits of information here and there extracted most of the time from my mom.
It hurts.
And still - it doesn't. I know this is the way life is supposed to be. Choosing to live your life far away from your roots comes with its loads of joys and sorrows.
Being here has brought me many satisfactions, and sentimental happiness.
But it drove me away from the only being I have known since its first cries, and that will always remain a regret.

Crazy Cat Lady

Another 'mamie' slice.
On her legacy.

I started loving cats when I was living with her. My grandparents always had cats in the house; well - not exactly : since my mom was 12. Which is synonymous with FOREVER when your tiny little self is only 6.
Or even with science-fiction.

Chita was the cat of the house when I was around. Really the spelling should have been 'Cheetah' since she was named after Tarzan's monkey for some reason. I don't think I have ever known why; every time I asked I heard the same non-descriptive answer: "Because we wanted something a little bit more original than Coco, Titi and Loulou".
Well - mission accomplished guys.
The funny thing is that they never knew what a REAL cheetah was. And I learned it myself only much later.

So Chita (let me stick with tradition, will you?) was quite the specimen. Born from an aging Moumousse, she was the only cat of the litter. These two factors combined led me to elaborate the theory that Chita suffered from Down Syndrome, the feline version. Looking back on it it shows a pretty good understanding of genetics for a girl my age....
Wonder how I came up with that...as well as what happened to my precocious talent for sciences.

Chita was not only a monkey in name, she was also a real bitch. For the most part I was scared of her claws and her mood swings; but she was also fascinating. I was dreaming of a tamed version of her who would just cuddle on my lap all day long and purr like a machine. Every so often she would actually jump on me; I was so ecstatic that I wouldn't move an inch. Hardly breathing and giving myself cramps I was savoring the moment and was imagining that my tormentor did too. She was closing her eyes after all - which was in my mind a sure sign that she was smiling.

This traumatic experience should have pushed me away from cats for the rest of my life.
It only kindled my interest.

My mom was a clean freak and never allowed us to have pets. (Now I can totally see why. I am to the point of considering providing plastic cover ups to my future guests - at least if they want to sit somewhere. Any other suggestion is welcomed - shaving aside.)
So it took me almost twenty years to share my space with a cat again.

Gretel came in our lives in April 2006. She is a little bourgeois picked up on a Sunday morning from classy Hinsdale, but living in the 'hood has definitely worked wonders on tempering down her aspirations.
(I never told her we were living almost next door to the President, and neither should you.)

She is of course precious, cute, sweet, adorable and I love her bunches. And it's not only because she is fluffy, warm, hilarious and yes, cuddly (RIP Chita). She is unique and will always be because she helped me during the darkest moments of my life. Always by my side when I would spend hours in bed, crying and staring at the ceiling. Licking my hand to signify me that I was not totally alone. Pushing her head against my face in a way to tell me that it was going to be ok.
So now - have I just totally given in in anthropomorphism? Foh sure. But there is not an ounce of me who doesn't believe in what I wrote. I don't think I am one of these crazy cat ladies who prefer their four-legged companions over anything (anyone) else. I find them creepy. But I know that somehow, in her own special way, Gretel cared. One of the surest signs of this 'involvement' was that her behavior changed as I was slowly but surely liberating myself from the iron grip of depression. She took her distance. Still present and affectionate but more on her own terms. She felt she was not needed anymore.

As a kid I could not fathom why mamie was so found of Chita-the-feral-cat (I guess she was just trying to live up to her name; who could blame her for it?). It took me twenty years and my own hour of need to understand that Chita was just there for her. She welcomed her at the door. She was a presence in a cold and empty bed. A being to talk to and to care for. Moody perhaps but faithful, reliable, authentic.
I couldn't see that at the time but now - I totally get it.

Sugar Coated

So I am ditching words, literature and the infamous University of Chicago for a world of sweetness.

I am set to work at a bakery.

Really - the job is waiting for me. It stays warm next to the ovens that deliver mighty goodness to the neighborhood and soon - hopefully - way beyond.
It is an exclusive job.
Just for me.

When I try to sometimes stop and think about it - I am comforted by the fact that it just makes sense. I don't know what the faculty members of my department will have to say about the idea and my apparently inexplicable change of 'career' (and why should I care?); I am even unsure of how it will be received by some family members. By the very ones who have been asking the same question over the last 7 years ('When will you be done?' - sigh and rolling of eyes in tow) while questioning the choice I made of studying something so 'unpractical' (polite version) and totally useless.

But I know that my grandma Odette ('mamie') would have told me to go ahead and do it.

First and foremost- because she was that kind of woman: loving and supportive. Kind, sweet, gentle and generous. I remember very clearly one cold and windy afternoon waiting for the bus with my mom in front of the cathedral of my hometown. I was about 5 years old, and curious about the statues gracing the portal.
"Who are these people up there?" I asked, vaguely pointing in their direction - you know, the way only little children do.
"These are saints. People who were so good during their lives that they are now in the sky with Jesus"
".....(trying to process the information)....well, mamie has to be with them!"

The truth is, I never really changed my mind. She raised me for two years after my parents' divorce, and was an incessant source of light and warmth. She has been gone for 11 years now but I still think of her every day. And always will.

But despite all her qualities mamie couldn't have been a saint.
See - she was not perfect.
She had one major flaw - a sin that I have to call by its French name since the traditional English translation (on top of being inaccurate) conjures such an ugly image totally at odds with the dear face of my grandma: 'gourmandise'. It's not the Christian gluttony. Far from it. Rather a very epicurean 'fondness for sweet'. The thing that makes you skip your meat to go straight for dessert. And have a second serving, if possible.

Yep, mamie's weakness was definitely on the sweet side, and boy did she pass it on to me! Through numerous trips to tea salons where we would share all types of fancy tarts, macaroons, ganaches, eclairs and 'petits fours'. And through baking sessions in her kitchen of more than 40 years. Lots of gaiety and cheerfulness but also anticipation, delightfulness, content and pure enjoyment...
So seeing her granddaughter work at a 'patisserie' (a place that sells cakes and cookies - 'petits gateaux' as we fondly say) would have probably made her damn happy - no matter the circumstances.

Having been "sugar coated" by her in many ways - it was only logical for me to end up at Bonjour. Just makes sense.
Merci, mamie, et bon appetit!

Words

When I was in "Cours Elementaire 1" (that would be the French equivalent to 2nd grade) my teacher told my grand mother: "Aurore is going to be a writer one day".

I have always had it easy with words. I remember that in "Cours Moyen 2" (this time - equivalent to 5th grade) my mom had to come to school to assure my teacher that I had written my composition by myself.
He had failed me because it was supposedly too elaborate for a 10 year-old.

So one bright and shiny day during recess my outraged mom stopped by school with my 3 month-old baby brother to defend her wronged daughter.
To make it all good - she had brought some sugared almonds from the christening that had occurred two weeks before...
Later I told her it was a form of bribe.
She didn't really care. Neither did I.
......................................................

Writing was just a logic outlet for me. I had learned my alphabet around 2 and a half, started reading my first books around 4 and never really stopped since. All these words had to go somewhere!
So thank God for compositions, papers and the rest. They gave me an excuse to let them go, flow, roll without thinking too much about it.

When it was time for me to decide what I wanted to do with my life - well, the first time at least, right at the end of high school - I knew that I wanted to go on. Reading. Writing. Reading about writing, and writing about my readings.
That seemed so obvious.
But the little voice of reason buried not that deep inside of me told me that I couldn't do that. It was not a job. Not a decent way to live my life. And so freaking useless. That was what everyone was saying so it had to be somewhat true. Right?
So I chose one prestigious path. Political Science- the leading school in France.

But something went wrong. I was successful - but unhappy. I was away from home, my friends and my new found boyfriend but first and foremost, away from my beloved words. Economics and constitutional law might be fascinating on their own rights - there was still something missing.
I will remember the last straw all my life.
We were all sitting in a small, over-heated room. We had all failed our last assignment - a substantial paper. I can't recall what I was supposed to be about. But in the middle of his diatribe our teacher suddenly said: "Guys, you think too much. You have to stop thinking. Because you are not here to learn how to think. You are here to learn how to apply commands".

Woo, woo, wooo...what?!?!?!?
I was 20, full of ideals and that just sounded.....wrong. SO wrong. I felt a wave of revolt surge over me. Romantic heroes anyone?!?!?
I decided right there and then to quit, and to go back to school to study literature.
That's exactly what I did, without looking back.

And here I am - 33 now, and still looking for the light. I studied literature ad nauseam, I wrote, published articles, read hundreds of books and mainly enjoyed it. Bathing in others' words will always be bliss. There is hardly anything better in life for me. Books are my treasures, my best friends and my life-time companions.
But writing has eluded me. On the verge of moving away from my path once again, I wonder. What is it with me and words? Why do I love them so much and yet cannot really make them mine? What am I missing? How do THEY do it?

This time it IS hard to move on. Because this time I am giving up what used to be such an important part of me, what I believed such co-substantial of me. What I believed IN.
But I like being alone with my words, and that's I came to realize after years of sharing them with people who were waiting for something I was not ready to give them. Leaving the academia doesn't mean abandoning my realm.

And that's comforting.

So it begins...

Hmmmm....
I am starting a blog.
Really?!?!?

Me?
When I can't even find a decent title for it? When I feel like I never have anything worthwhile to say? When I keep telling people that yes, I have a style but that. is. all.

Seemed pretty unlikely in the past.
Seems pretty doomed now.
Well - to hell with doubts.
I am giving this a try.