I am gone
March 28, 2016
I have officially spent a little more than three months in Western Europe, mostly in France, mostly with family. These have been happy and challenging times.
I have seen France not as I used to see it, but as a stranger would. I have tried to adapt to my hosts homes, at my sister’s, at my mom’s, at my cousins’, aunts and uncles’, grandmothers’… I have re-learnt and re-entered their lives, I have laughed in photo booths with Magali and hiked one of the highest peak of the flat North-Pas-de-Calais with Camille and baby Léonie.
I have driven over the Pont de Normandie and marvelled at the size of the Seine river, I have driven through sea-gull fields all the way to Rennes and Angers, I have been stuck in traffic on Marseille’s sea wall to refuel Mom when we had a train to catch, I have savagely climbed half-way up the MUCEM, I have been too sick to help Marc opening his wonderful secret/not-so-secret bar in Hyères, I have covertly organized a birthday party which ended up being a miraculous success thanks to Nadine, Marie-Noëlle, Danièle, and the twelve lovely other friends there. I have assisted to the carnival de la Plaine in Marseille with Louise and was glad to have a pillow to breathe in once police used tear gas on us. I sang Christian songs at baby Robin’s baptism and, for good balance, lived the first edition of the magically debauched KSP thanks to wonderful Patrick.
I have visited Portugal with my mom and godmother; stunning Lisbon with its many hills and colors, with its numerous places whispering in Kent’s far away ears, tempting him to join me there for a merry dive-bar hopping - dancing excepted, even at 2 a.m on a Friday. I have felt its wild and windy winter coast, its powerful and mesmerizing waves, its scenery all in blue and grey hues until a ray of sunshine lights up golden fortifications, sapphire fishing boats, and white dwellings hung onto its rocky cliffs.
I have surrendered to the Douro Valley, to its green peace living at the rhythm of wineries and villages. I have quivered in Porto, not knowing either if I should rebuild myself or surrender to decay. I have lost myself in its marvellous labyrinth of artfully tagged facades, preserved medieval merchant houses, and abandoned orange orchard. And all through Portugal, I have laughed at their steady dedication to confused historical explanations.
I have taken in the grandiose black cathedral of Cologne (Germany) with it’s towering elegance despite it’s gothic style - a true feat in my eyes. In Netherlands, I have walked the wee hours of Amsterdam’s nights, with its red lights and colorful latex shops, I have had too short a glimpse of Delft the beautiful thanks to the heart warming Rinske, I have melted for Ghent’s chubby dragons, and got tipsy on their strong Belgian beers.
I have succumbed to Van Gogh’s Wheatfield under Thunderclouds, to Sonia Delaunay’s Market at Minho, to Georges Fouquet’s jewels, I have been blinded by beauty many times, I have been enthralled by magic many more, I have been a part of my family for three whole months, travelling between them, spreading news (and love I hope) like fire.
I have been accepted and my fears proven wrong, I have known some of the people I love like I never imagined I could... And I am now leaving again, without regrets but a heavy weight in my heart.
