"La Rentrée"

In France, September doesn't just mean "back to school": it also means "back to work" for all those who spent most of August figuring out the best rapport qualité/prix for a bottle of rosé and the most effective way to tan under gray Atlantic skies. It means back to overcrowded métro stations and rushed evening Monoprix runs, back to cardigans and cafeteria lunches. Not to mention planning for the next holiday! La Toussaint is just two months away!

Megan Follows as Anne Shirely. [Online image] 1985.

Barley, Poppies, or Lavender

The "deuxième quinzaine" of August starts in a couple days, meaning vacation time for many here in France. And this year, I'll be joining in!
I, too, get to load up the car with maillots and robes d'été and head South (on the passenger side, bien sûr—CA licenses still aren't up to speed here), pretending to be Augustine in La Gloire de mon père (minus the kids). I've been listening to my "Relaxing in Provence" cd and am ready to nap in lavender fields. So please, cicadas, forget La Fontaine, and keep singing!

Helena B. Carter as Lucy Honeychurch. [Online image] 1985.

Paris Angst

Life in la ville des Lumières can be filled with romance and Perrier bubbles, but it can also be frustrating and grueling (especially when you have a petit accent). After 5+ years of endless métro and RER commutes, raised eye-brows from in-laws, and utter indifference from fonctionnaires, I've begun to think that maybe I've given it my best shot, and now it's time to move on (and away).
Though I've got to admit that I wouldn't have 40 vacation days in the U.S. ...

Naomi Watts as Roxeanne de Persand. [Online image] 2003.

The Break-up

I’ve tried to dress like you and eat like you, talk like you and think like you.

But it’s over now.

So go ahead and keep your curt pardons and greasy steak-frites.

Just give me back my wide smile and tofu cheese, and I’ll be fine.

You can have your leather flats and throaty “r”s back if I get to wear flip-flops and laugh out loud.

I’ve been waiting for you to fall in love with me for five years now, almost six.

But you don't give a shit.

I’ve read your poetry, your history books, and watched your bad TV.

Only to hear you say, “Vous n’êtes pas française.”

To feel you push me into tired trains and step on my feet.

But this time, I’m not coming back for more.

You can rain on me and blow smoke in my face all you want.

Profites-en.

Because it won’t last for long.

I’m leaving you, France.

And even though you won’t miss me, I’m taking along someone you will.