Words of Wisdom from a 12-year-old

Yesterday night, as I was explaining how to use "myself, yourself, herself, etc." to my 12-year-old French tutee Jérôme (I give him and his little brother, Angelico (yes, Angelico), English lessons once a week), we got distracted.  Given my penchant for chatting, and Jérôme's devilishly charming nature (I am convinced that he will soon be breaking the hearts of little teenage girls all over Paris), this is not a terribly uncommon occurrence.  But don't tell that to their maman, because I get paid for this gig.  Anyway, inspired by the brief snowfall that afternoon, we began discussing December and our impending vacations.  We discovered that we were both December babies (he was born the 11th, I the 18th); I thought the drizzly-half-snow-gloom was depressing, he thought it was nice ("C'est Paris!" he argued); I told him I was going back to states soon, and we agreed that Paris was a hard city to leave.  "It's funny," I told him in my slow, carefully-enunciated English, "a month ago, I was a bit homesick and I couldn't wait to go back to the West Coast.  And now that I'm leaving in a week, I'm a bit sad to go!"  And that's when Jérôme shared his 12-year-old wisdom with me: "On pleure quand on arrive et on pleure quand on repart" (translation: We cry when we arrive, and we cry when we leave again).

Sometimes the best bits of wisdom are also the simplest and the most obvious--though you don't necessarily see them.  After months of loving and hating Paris, of feeling somewhat enamored and then completely ambivalent, I finally feel as though I am, whether I like it or not, a part of the city.  I hurry through the cold, gray streets with the best of them, trying to bury my hands deeper in my pockets.  I wander starry-eyed around Montmartre, enchanted by the old stones and dazzling views.  I'm a regular at the nearby Café Nemrod, where my friends and I drink wine and nibble on salted peanuts; the clientele ranges from well-dressed but not obnoxiously-trendy 20-somethings to older neighborhood residents (like the old man who reads the paper and usually orders a pain au chocolat and a beer).  I know the guy at the fresh fruit and veggie store, who knows that I like apples that are "tart but a little sweet too."

I am eagerly looking forward to those mountains and evergreens as we fly in over Seattle.  I can't wait to have a little breathing room (and breath fresh, cleaner air!) and drive around in the Subaru blasting forgotten CD's and 80-degree air.  I'm going to bake bread with Daddy, go to Central Market with Mommy, probably be dragged to a ridiculous movie that I will pretend to dislike with Sarah, and tool around Fremont with Emily.  And the dogs will smell as bad as ever!  Nonetheless, I am getting a bit sad to leave Paris.  The feeling is not pronounced, particularly because I'm coming back in January, but it lingers under the eaves and in the twinkling Christmas lights.  I know that I'll come back to the city with new eyes.  Paris will not have changed too much, but my relationship to it will have.  The first chapter of my Parisian sojourn is closing.

The French have a saying, which is employed in all kinds of situations, from grammar lessons to metro strikes: "C'est comme ça" ("It's like that").  It's uttered with the same finality as Jérôme's words of wisdom about coming and going.  Maybe the situation is melancholy, maybe it's frustrating, or maybe it's just neutral; in any even, C'est comme ça.  No solution is offered, no advice or logic is included.  It's completely obvious, and very simple, but also enlightening.  If you're feeling gloomy, let the gloom have its day in the sun!  If you want to punch something, you're not really entitled to violence, but you can scream curse words!  If your feelings are completely ambiguous, let the mediocrity reign!  The expression is a way of acknowledging one's feelings, without trying to change them.  It's refreshing.  You're unhappy, pissed off, jealous, thrilled, excited, glum, ambivalent.  That's life.  C'est comme ça.

The date of my departure approaches, and my sentiments are as mixed up as a bowl of Cassoulet.  But--although I realize this would be an excellent moment to repeat the aforementioned expression, I'll spare you--Cassoulet's is pretty good.  So I'm not complaining.

Bises,

Alice