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.