Time of Crisis

So far - this new year awaited with such trepidation hasn't really been stellar for me.
Quite the contrary.
My days have been filled with much negativity, tears, doubts and overall sadness. January usually does that to me, so I am not that surprised but I cannot really write in a state of mild depression.

So I read.
And watch.
So that I don't think too much.

This time of crisis - or mental hibernation like I used to call it - hasn't been totally sterile though. From all this brooding over emerged two things I can get quite excited about as soon as the heavy veil is lifted - soon.
Two things I never really thought I would partake in. Unless I were a man in his late 40s and on the verge of a midlife crisis. I guess crises are inherently all the same. They require, urge, demand with an unsettling vigor something different. Radical.
So I decided on an impulse to go skydiving. I just seized the opportunity, without thinking about it twice and received my little information packet in the mail last week. I have never been really curious about it but it feels just right.
And I am quite elated about it.

The other thing has been with me for quite a while, in a corner of my head I usually don't visit very often, especially since I did the big leap of faith of crossing the Atlantic eight years ago, on yet another whim. I must have thought that it was adventure enough for a while, and that I could sit back and rest a bit before considering anything remotely as daring. But now the time has come, and I rested enough.
I want to learn how to drive a bike. A motorbike, that is. I want to have this unique feeling of freedom, control and speed, and abandon myself in it. Not for thrill-seeking sake. I am not that much of a risk taker, at least not in a literal way. I just need to feel alive again, to get rid of the numbness I have been feeling for the last few years and this is the perfect way to do it.

So even though 2010 has started 'off' I still want to make it my year. A year of change and achievement. A year of happiness.
January is almost done.

Snow Day

Every time the weather forecast issues a winter advisory - I am clapping my hands, jumping and bouncing around like a little girl.
At least - when snow is involved.
Today 9 inches are expected over the city, up to a foot by the lake front (and guess where I live?!?!?) - nothing can make me happier in the dead of winter.
Except of course that today - I had to cancel lunch with darling Kelly......that's what happens when you have a wreck of a car that is still damaged from a previous accident. No right front light, a very bruised bumper, scratches and the engine light on. Even though we are indeed in 2010 and that the stretch of bad luck should be officially over - I didn't really want to put that to the test.
Not today.

Strangely enough, none of my snow memories are linked with childhood. It snows every winter in my part of France but usually not enough to be really memorable. And - please note - never for Christmas. That would be too much to ask for.
Of course.
But I do have a picture of me at 7 or so, all bundled up in a red anorak, an itchy balaclava (man did I hate these things) and thick white tights. I am grinning to the camera in front of a freshly made snowman. One of the few things I did during my life with my dad. We were on vacation at my great-aunt house in Alsace, and my little cousin (11 or 12 at the time) was listening endlessly to "Careless Whisper" and day-dreaming of George Michael.

I had then a painful encounter with cold and snow in Eastern Europe; Prague was blanketed with a thick layer of white powder, muffling every sound in the city. It was magical, and still unspoiled by tourism. I fell in love for the first time. I was going on 16.
The painful part came a few days later in the plains of Bohemia, when the Siberia wind was blowing over the Auschwitz/Birkenau camps. The temperatures plummeted down to a frigid minus 35 degrees Celsius; we had to shorten our visit and go back inside the bus.

The next memory is set yet again a few years later, this time back in my hometown.
Winter of 1996-1997. An exceptional one. Snow stayed on the ground 29 out of the 31 days of January. It was such a big deal that it was even talked about in the news on national television. You can just imagine the precious report that came out of it, journalists asking people on the street how they felt about 'the situation'; it was meant to be serious. It was just hilarious.
I remember throwing my first dinner 'party' that month; small circle - restricted to my family: mom, step-dad, brother and mamie. I went grocery shopping with warm boots on, elated to have people over for the very first time, in my very first place. I was happy. I had planned a wonderful meal, with duck breast as a star and a hell of a dessert.
That ended up being the first and only visit of mamie to my place.
So, yes. Close to my heart.

After that - snow for me is all about the US. First in Connecticut, where my second winter was punctuated by a dozen blizzards. I loved being snowed in in my little blue house in the woods, surrounded by absolute silence. It was utterly beautiful. I remember watching intently The Weather Channel from the diner across the road, praying for more bad weather coming my way. Being aware of my eccentric and slightly irresponsible yearn but unable to join the choir of laments when sorry weathermen were promising more inches. Trying instead to repress a smile.
I knew the danger involved though. I had been caught in a nasty storm on my way back from Providence after Thanksgiving weekend, and had driven in a snow vortex for five hours. A surreal experience. Even the ultimate chore of snow shoveling an entire driveway was not bad enough to make me wish for dry weather.
Call me nuts if you want. There is no rationality involved.

Snow days in Chicago aren't of course as enchanting. The immaculate beauty cannot compete for very long with the hustle and bustle of the city. But it is more striking in a way. The neighborhood is different; softer. Quiet. Forgiving. I love going out at night under the falling flakes, arm in arm with my sweetie, listening to the unmistakable cracking sound of our shoes on the covered sidewalk. Shivering a bit, red-nosed and eyes-watering I just enjoy a pure cluster of happiness. One of these plaisirs minuscules around which Philippe Delerme wrote a little masterpiece.
A tiny pleasure.
Can't wait for tonight...

A Lovely Escapade

It's not much.
164 small pages.
A bright, colorful cover of rice paper bags.
And a wonderful title that plays beautifully with the French language. A title I can only dream of translating. Something that goes way beyond words and carries a whole world of meaning - a title-universe.
A true and rare gem.

I am a huge mystery fan. I read loads of them, and has this silly and frivolous pleasure to be able to put my hands way before my beloved friend Anne (back home) on the last Elizabeth George's installment. I do own (almost) all of them. Love.
I am not and has never been ashamed of my fascination with detective stories. I started as a kid with Enid Blyton and her 'Famous Five', 'upgraded' to the Alice Roy series and never stopped since. I am really and truly addicted, and have devoured hundreds of titles over the years. It was my vice as a literature student but one I proudly embraced; I even considered for a moment writing my dissertation on it.
But one cannot seriously live off one's vice, right?

I like my books like old faithful friends. Always entertaining, never disappointing.
A solid rock to rely on, one of the best ways to live through the long winter days. And a nice collection of memories.

But they are not earth-shattering. They don't make my heart flutter, don't fill my stomach with butterflies, don't transport me over the clouds.
Don't bring me to tears - of laughter or emotion.
They are companions.
Not lovers.

L'Echappée belle is one of these jewels that make you live. And shine. And want.
It's not only a 'lovely escapade' - a possible translation, but one that only would only cover half of the meaning; therefore actually impossible.
Yes, it is a charming and bucolic little piece filled with swirling butterflies, summer light, humming bees and warm hay smells. A fond look on the French countryside, its simple beauty, its rusticity, its essential earthiness. The 'profound' country of my childhood, virtually unknown on this side of the ocean. The small village wedding. The terrace of an old-fashioned café on the main square, with its tables under the chestnut trees. The picnic on a plaid blanket by the river. Red wine and saucissons, fresh bread still warm from the bakery oven, plump fruits and daisy necklaces. The old castle in ruins hidden behind the road curve. Wild flowers. Church bells.
A simple, provincial form of happiness that talks to the heart. Words so powerful in their suggestive power that I could almost feel the breeze on my face, hear the chirping birds and feel at home.
Almost.

I escaped for a (too) short couple of hours with the characters, left my life behind and just let myself be. Feel. And it is tough nowadays.
Reading Anna Gavalda made me incredibly home-sick, but also loaded me up with joy and nostalgia. Few books can claim that pride. But when I find one of those, I cherish them all my life.

I haven't talked about the second aspect of the title; s'échapper is of course to escape, but l'échapper belle is even more than that; you escape just in time. You barely made it. But you did. And that's what counts, after all.
To make it.

The Holiday - part 2: The End

I really have mixed feelings about the holidays, and pretty much always have. Well - not when I was 4 or 5 and prepping Santa his plate. I even added a carrot for the reindeer.
One.
Looking back on it it's funny how logic totally escapes you as a kid. Because only a couple of few weeks before that St Nicholas' donkey was entitled to a carrot of its own. No sharing involved. Unfairness if it ever was.
Then my parents divorced and I had to share my holiday time between them two. That meant twice the gifts (as my comrades at school kept telling me) but from the inside it was hard to see it that way. As a teenager I was only thinking of the time off it meant; as a young adult I had to spend hours trying to figure out a tight schedule where time would be equally divided between mom, dad and my boyfriend's family.
Oh boy.
Then I came to the US. And Christmas was never the same again.

But what has never changed is the mild depression that comes with January. The Holiday soufflé falls down, and we are left with a sense of...well...deflation. I know I am. I am always dreading NYE because of drunk drivers, overpriced parties and awkward kissing time at midnight but also because it signals the end of a time that, for sure, has lost most of its magic over time but is still one of the highlights of the year, whether one likes it or not. In France we have the redeeming celebration of the Epiphany (traditionally on the 6th - conveniently displaced to the first Sunday of the month to accommodate modern society) but after that and the succulent galette des rois, nothing. Nada. C'est fini. The Christmas tree comes down, the garlands go back in the basement, and checkbooks in drawers until the end of the month. Then starts the long strand of gray and cold, cold days. Spring seems further than ever. You just want to become Phil (the groundhog, not the doctor) and go to sleep until the first bud spotting. Shadow seeing or not.
January is just emptiness.
And this tremendous void doesn't make new resolutions any easier. Right?

But sometimes the beginning of the year can really and truly signals a true beginning.
Clean slate.
Let's write a new story.
It happened twice over these last three years, and I am determined to do it again. Because three times the charm.
This year is dedicated to my body. Beautify it, strengthen it, heal it....just take care of it. Because it's worth it. I am worth it!! ; )
Stay tuned...