Subtle rain replaced the warm sunshine this morning. I walk to school under an umbrella, watching for frequent dog poop on the thin sidewalks, listening to Elliott Smith, looking for the gray cat on Rue du Midi that's probably hiding from the watery skies.
It's been two weeks since I hugged anyone.
I rattle off a French tongue-twister for Phonetics, and the teacher says très très bien and gives me another one that looks exactly the same. Un ange qui songeait à changer de visage pour donner le change se vit si changé. I copy Le Mésopotamie: Croissant Fertile, histoire écrit from the white board to my graph paper notebook, let my gaze drop to the floor and don't pick it up for a long while.
Today, for the first time in two years, my life is wholly up to me. The distance has finally been cut, no longer overstretched like a sore muscle, and life is assez simple. I am free from that which is no longer serving me.
I've been in France for two weeks, but time passes remarkably slowly. Already my body is becoming anchored in the winding streets; I'm beginning to find shortcuts and recognize places in this labyrinthine town. (Before today), the past week has been a happy one, filled with cups of coffee and French movies (patiently explained in slower French by Charles).
I hate that I'll never speak like a native, but I have hope that in a month, I'll at least understand more. My head no longer hurts from listening and speaking a second language constantly. Just as I fell in love with French in seventh grade, I am even more in love with it now.
I don't know what I'd do without Charles and Magali, who spend so much time with me. Already I can predict I'll be very, very sad to leave Pau in December.
No comments:
Post a Comment