Night

Filmy curtains
made from the gossamer
of mosquito wings
swirl
like the hem
of a lady's nightgown.

Darkness,
but no sleep
tonight.

At least
the air is salt.
The night
too hot
too hot
but at least
not thirsty.

There is nothing
but nothing
like a night that is thirsty.

J'ai soif,
he whispered.
Toujours soif,
encore soif.
Marseille is salt
and heat
but not dry.

Sleep doesn't come easy
in the city
with a thousand
sins
and a single truth.

So I will remain
a servant of this night.
I will watch
the play of white
against a square of living dark
and wait
to fall...
if I fall
asleep.

The City of Sound

Marseilles is a controversial city, and a pretty awful television series. I am leaving for Aix en Provence tomorrow, concluding the first leg of my very first solo travel experience. I scoured the internet for travel blogs written by unaccompanied female travelers. I read countless articles about safety. In the end, I didn't learn anything new and it all made me rather paranoid.

So paranoid, in fact, that I stopped wearing earbuds while moving around, as was my habit in Strasbourg and Syracuse. I wanted to be aware of my surroundings, alert to possible dangers. In the end it was a good choice, but not for the initial reasons.

I mean, I don't know. Maybe those are legitimate arguments. In fact, I feel like I've read somewhere that earbuds make you more susceptible to aggression because you aren't paying attention, or something.

But before I get too sidetracked, let me explain why I found music-less travel rewarding. I can't pretend it was some earth-shattering revelation, but for the first time in a long time I was aware of the sounds around me. The laughter of children, the peculiar Marseillais accent, the sound of waves, the ugly things some men said to me in the street.

Marseilles came alive in the most mundane way possible. I saw the sun on ancient stone, I smelled the fish market at 9 in the morning, I tasted the anise-sweetness of Pastis. But without headphones to pass the time waiting in the metro station, I heard the young man next to me muttering to himself as he wrote a song about some girl in Grenoble. A girl with lips like vermilion and eyes like something from "une rêverie Marocaine".

I heard the creak of the ferris wheel at the water's edge of the Vieux Port. I heard the soldiers complaining about the heat. One of them called out to me in greeting, and he tipped his beret politely in response to my equally correct response. Funny, I didn't know soldiers talked to tourists. They never do in Strasbourg, anyways.

I heard the Americans. Whole droves of them, big and small. Californians like me, and from elsewhere. I felt a sense of solidarity to them, the Californians. It made me feel- strangely- a sense of pride, a sense of patrie. Not to America, but to California.

I heard a lavender merchant cajole an older couple from Boston into buying an entire basket of little sachets to perfume the wardrobe, and bottles of essence, to calm the nerves. I visited his booth later. He was very kind. We talked and joked for a long time- a good use of my French. I bought a little bottle of essence myself, more as a gesture than anything else.

From time to time, I noticed my own voice as I spoke French. It surprised me every time, to hear the certainty and confidence. Nobody knew I had only been learning since last September. A lady selling little bracelets asked, and was flatteringly shocked. I am very proud of how quickly I have picked up French. I may never pick up the art of French dressing, or French eating habits, or ever really be able to correctly handle my fork and knife. But at least I can speak the language.

It is late. I am tired from the sun and all the walking, not to mention my brief bout of food poisoning. And just outside my window, someone is playing the clarinet. A couple is arguing. A cat is yowling. Night magic.

Gourmandise à la Cynthia

I was trying to explain Pan Catalán to Claire. I gave her the words I could and  drew in the air with my hands. We had just finished a plate of endive apiece, Claire and I. Her window was open behind her, blowing the shy perfume of rain-loosened soil into the kitchen. I drained my glass of wine. Claire refilled it automatically.

“Tiens,” she said, setting it by my plate. “Fin, c’est très à la mode, t’as remarqué?”

“Pas trop…mais j’imagine, ouais…”

We had been speaking about des gourmandises. Claire said that in the last few years it had become very popular in France to have a platter of little desserts with coffee.  I said I hadn’t noticed it especially, but could imagine that being the case.  Couldn’t you? Couldn’t you see someone taking an espresso after dinner, feeling the smoky bitterness wash away the velvety taste of wine and duck? Punctuating it with something sweet? Little tastes to stimulate the palate without detracting from the tranquillity of the café?

Of course you could.

I once had something like that back home. Vietnamese coffee with strawberries cooked in maple syrup, with little almond cakes, with candied pecans, with mixed raisins. I described it all to Claire, who sat attentively before me. I explained that the strawberries were the crowning glory, the pièce de résistance. They were sliced and cooked in maple syrup with hints of lemon zest and pepper, topped with mint. I had demanded the recipe.

“Recipe?” my friend said. “What recipe? There’s no recipe.” But she wrote down what was in it, explaining that no two batches came out the same.

“Strawberries, maple syrup (I’ve experimented with agave. Don’t you make the same mistake) lemon juice and/or zest (or any citrus, really. Sometimes I don’t bother at all), vanilla extract (not if you have that cheap Costco shit. No buts, Cynthia), pepper (non-negotiable!), and mint for garnish (or cinnamon, rosemary, lavender, or whatever the hell else. Add nuts and I’ll kill you, though).”

The corners of Claire’s mouth turned downwards and she tilted her head pensively. You know the look. It’s the universal gesture of “ah, okay, not bad.”

“ Bon, j’ai tous les ingrédients dans ma cuisine, ” and she stood with a grin. I blinked dumbly back at her. Claire started pulling things out of the cabinets: maple syrup, pepper, lemons…

“Allons-y, Cynthia.”

“Maintenant?”

“Oui!”

“Maintenant, maintenant ? “

“Ben, oui!” Claire laughed at my surprise.

So we did. We sliced the strawberries with little paring knives against our palms. Claire drowned them in maple syrup and soon the kitchen was filled with the smell of it. Sweet, tangy  warmth, mixing with the quiet smell of rain slipping in from outside.

“C’est fini?”

I shrugged. The bright crimson of the strawberries had faded somewhat, and the syrup was bubbling.

“Pourquoi pas?” I said. Grinning, Claire switched the stove off and ladled the fragrant mixture into the two bowls I handed her. I ate mine with yogurt (soy, don’t fret!) and she ate hers nature.

It was good. The lemon added acidity to cut through the heaviness of the maple syrup, and the strawberries retained their freshness. The pepper was the snap, the vanilla the muted note of class.

“C’est bon!” Claire exclaimed. “Sucré, mais pas trop. Le citron est parfait…pas trop lourd…pas du tout. ” So we finished our dessert, laughing at the spontaneity of it all, and talking politics. Claire took out an old yellow notebook book to show me. It was a recipe book she’s had for over fifty years, since she was a little girl. It was filled with recipes, but also doodles, diagrams and notes taken by Claire as a child, Claire as an adolescent, Claire as a young adult, the Claire I know today. You could see the handwriting change, become neat, then extravagant, then elegant, then simple and clean. She flipped to a blank page, and wrote:

Gourmandise à la Cynthia.

 

 

sans titre

Lately
When it rains
It really rains
I mean
It pours
Truth
Lies
Drink
Tears
N'importé quoi.

Falling apart
Maybe
Is
Knitting
Newly together
Or maybe
Not.

You're crazy.
Crazy bored
Crazy lonely
Crazy lovesick.

France.
It's a dream
A hoot in hell.
Ah
But how beautiful
Is hell.

Devils?
Elsewhere.
Broken
Or not
Who knows.

It doesn't rain
Not in
San
Diego
But
In Santa Cruz

Also
No.
Only without.

Leave
Really really really
Leave.
Can't.
Come home.
No such thing.

Lately
When it rains
It's inside
Your
Two
Waters.

Return to Strasbourg

It looks like rain. I have Claire’s umbrella in my bag, but if it rains like it did yesterday, I will have to move inside. The papers have been prophesying rain for a week now. Claire tells me that when it is warm and humid, people look for clouds above the Vosges Mountains. For days now there have been a whole army of them. They arrived yesterday, to occupy the sky above Strasbourg. Yesterday the air went from quiet to thunderous as we sat the little café by Place Kleber.


I said I would come back, did I not?


It is not supposed to rain until 6 tonight. Yesterday I did not have an umbrella or a jacket with me, so I walked from the party to the tram stop in torrential rain. I have missed this rain. It rained a while back in San Diego. I was away.


This morning I took breakfast with Claire. I have missed long meals, where forks scraping against plates punctuate lively conversation.


Bonjour, to the two men sitting at the table behind me. I can see on my screen’s reflection that they are reading over my shoulder. Ah, they are laughing.


You speak English? A little. Well, I must congratulate you two for you eyesight…the words on the screen are a little far from you.


I see. Non, Vous parlez bien anglais. C’est vrai. C’est vrai.


Anyway, I went to the modern art museum just near Claire’s appartment. I took the long way this time, looping all the way around. It was a morning for walking. Warm, but not too sunny.


I visited the new exhibit, lingering by my favorites in the permanent collection on the first floor. Antibes, Le Soir, by Signac. Der Wald, by Campendonk. Kandinsky. Everything Kandinsky.


Good-bye, Charles, Antoine. It was nice talking to you.