It dawned on me the other day, as I stood in line at the grocery store and pulled out my carte de fidélité when Max asked for it, that I am no longer a stranger here.
But in all other respects, we're in an interval, the friendly open space between the chaos of getting here and the eventual misery-and-relief I anticipate when it is time to go back.
A New Yorker who relocated to Paris and Provence at the end of her life to write and have a lengthy love affair, Wharton had plenty of time to reflect on the differences between the bourgeois classes in both nations. She begins her book with the usual caveats (comparisons are odious, most books like this are wrong) and then tucks into a series of fairly vague but undeniably accurate observations. As I was reading a reprint of this rare book of hers, I kept having that pleasurable "Ah! Yes!" feeling you get when somebody says something you have thought before, only better and more clearly than you could have said it yourself.
According to Wharton, Americans have a lot to learn from the French. They are less superstitious, less prudish, and much more aware of the value of history and manners. Cognizant of the real threats to their culture and way of life, they have the good sense to preserve, rather than constantly to jettison and reinvent. They live more fully grounded in their five finely-honed senses, and have oodles more natural taste than do most Americans. I would guess that Wharton sort of excludes herself from this group of "most Americans," as you must have taste to notice that others have it as well.
All of these factors are among the reasons she finds the French to be "grown-up" in comparison to the more childishly optimistic and Okey-dokey folkies she remembers back home.
I find that she's pretty much right on target with nearly all of her observations, despite their sweeping nature and superior tone. And it's possible that France, as a nation, is much more grown-up. But I have to wonder whether she notices so much growth and maturity because of where she herself was in her life. Or, more likely, whether she notices real differences between French people and Americans, but names the French qualities "grown-up" because she was so herself when she was living here.
At any rate, that is what we are up to in our own interval here: growing, and growing up. Instead of grabbing a cereal bar as we run out the door, then eating our sad little sandwiches at our desks at work, we're eating three meals a day together around a sturdy oak table. We're teaching the girls to clean up the kitchen with us (a more challenging task than you might imagine, and certainly more challenging than just doing it ourselves.) We're working towards the goal of letting them walk into town independent of us, although I'm taking this project awfully slowly and cautiously.
But I'm not there yet. I'm here, in the middle. Not just of this trip, but also, quite undeniably now, of my life. And at the same moment that it occurs to me that I really live here, I recognize with equal clarity that I really won't forever. It's not really just about France. It's about time, and I'm taking it.
Yes, Launa - this is so wonderful. The ability to be really comfortable in the middle, to be there, rather than expending all of one's energy mourning the beginning or fearing the end ... well, that is the task of my life, at least.
ReplyDeleteThank you!
Beatiful, Launa.
ReplyDeleteDo you think this is 1/2? It might be closer to 2/5! Or if your glass is half french you might believe it's 9/10; you just never know. Tick tock either way I suppose. 1/2? Really? Gah.
Lovely, Launa. Truly lovely. Being in the middle. Seeing ahead and behind. At peace with right here.
ReplyDeleteIs it truly possible that they might not let you back into France? That would be awful. Do keep us updated as to how that process is going. Yikes. Whose life will I be envious of when you return to the States to live and eat cereal bars on your way to work?
PS. Don't you sometimes get sick of eating every meal as a foursome? Even a little bit???