I wake and go into the kitchen for my breakfast. My own home feels foreign to me on this morning. I look out the window. Yes, there's some nice rose bushes to look at, but it's not quite the view of rolling hills from my uncle's house. I look in the fridge. Yes, there's everything I need in there, but it's lacking the fresh homemade preserves, rustic bread, organic milk and unbelievable cheeses and garden-picked fruit. Charles called and remarked how bland his Trader Joe's coffee tasted compared to French supermarket coffee. Or how the milk just didn't taste the same. I think we all went through noticing these things here and there that jarred our senses after getting used to the French versions for almost 2 weeks.
There was, however, one thing more positive in my observations: while driving to work the next day, I could see the planes coming in for a landing at LAX as I often do on my way to work. Several months ago, I looked longingly at those planes wishing so badly that I could just hop on one and finally be on my way to France. But it seemed too expensive and the logistics too nightmarish. Now, many months later, I could look at those planes and know that my wish had been fulfilled. I firmly believe in the saying, "Where there's a will, there's a way." And I've just proven it, at least to myself.
I had longed to see France again for so many years that I was afraid that I had built it up in my head more than the reality of it. But in fact, it had more than fulfilled my expectation to the point of intoxication. Making me even wonder if I would even go so far as to move my life to this other land. Charles and I had briefly mentioned it as speculation. My mother later asked me if I would ever live there. I answered, "Maybe." I do know that if we had never returned to the States when I was a child, I don't think I would have really missed Los Angeles. But that was the viewpoint of a child. Now I am torn. I am used to the eclectic variety I've grown up with in LA and enjoy all that there is to do here. But there are some basic ways of life that I've come to appreciate even more in France than I did before. Maybe it just seems less complicated there, but I know that can be an illusion too especially when one is vacationing. I was glad to be speaking English again, although I'm sure given enough time, I could be as fluent in French as in English.
The night we first arrived in Crest, I was asking my mother what the word for "home" was in French. I wanted to say that I felt that I had finally arrived "home." She kept saying it was "maison." But that wasn't the word I was looking for. I understood "maison" to be the physical site of a house, but I was looking for a more metaphysical definition of "home" as in a place you identify with as your own personal sanctuary. I never found the translation for this. But I did come across a quote from a book about "home":
"Home is not where you are from. Home is where you feel welcome."
—Abraham Verghese, "Cutting for Stone"
Crest and the Haute-Savoie region (where Excenevex is) would definitely fit that definition. Not that there aren't times were I feel welcome in LA. It's just on a different level. Unfortunately, maybe a more superficial one in many cases. Aside from a handful of close friends I keep in touch with (usually by email as they don't live nearby), many others are mostly acquaintances. You see them at parties or common events, but rarely sitting down for long and meaningful (or even memorable) conversation. I find that many people in LA are more interested in having fans than friends. Everyone is somehow related to or yearning to get into show business whether it's film, TV or theater. Sure, I like to primp and pose a good deal myself, but I also crave something a little deeper from my friendships and relationships. But I suppose that's just something that is a characteristic of this city.
Meanwhile, I do have one last memory to tell of my uncle. He and Suzanne gave me a little gift at the end of our trip to take home with me. It appeared to be a wrapped book. When I opened it at home, it was in fact, a photographic book on various walks in Crest in both English and French. I had wanted something just like it but couldn't find it on my own. But far more special than the book was the poem my uncle had written and included with the gift. I've done my best to translate the intention of his words here:
Carcavel Street
St. Francois Street
Street of the Old Prisons
And of course
The Rue Cote Chaude (the street they grew up on)
And much more
So many paths
That your mother and me
We tumbled down
While running
And ran back up less quickly
Huffing and puffing
Streets that heard
Our cries, our tears, and sometimes our laughter
Places that saw the passing of our childhood
Streets that you have discovered
In this September sunshine
And you may be able to recognize
Through the pages of this book
That we offer
In memory of this little stay with us
With all our affection and hoping we'll meet again someday soon.
Aunt Suzanne and Uncle Francois
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