Every morning, I ride the Paris métro for more than half of the line 8. It’s a long commute, but not altogether unpleasant, in large part because my bosses have a very flexible idea of what “on time” means, but also because the metro is an ideal place for people-watching. Just yesterday morning, Wednesday–that strange day off for children that falls in the middle of the week, when children spend their time, not at school, but at activities or day cares–I was riding the métro when a group of girls maybe 8 or 9 years old boarded with their animatrice. One of them sat in the seat in front of me and pretended to fall asleep, to the giggles of her classmates. I watched as she clowned around, then looked nervously around for the animatrice, who was hidden by the crowd.
“Mais elle est partie où ?” she asked. “On descend à quel arrêt ?” The animatrice poked her head out.
“T’en fais pas, je te le dirai.” She settled back into her seat and giggled again, and they got off at Concorde.
Maybe it was the fact that the little girl was probably half-Arab, and thus reminded me of the little Turkish girls this summer. Maybe it was the sweet way they joked with one another. Or maybe it was just time. After all, I’m more than familiar with this feeling; it happens all the time.
I get tired of places the longer I’m in them–Paris, New York, Paziols. I’m in awe when I arrive, and then awe turns to normalcy, normalcy to boredom, and when it comes time to leave, I can’t get out fast enough. Perhaps it happens more in Paziols than anywhere else, if only because by the time the six weeks are up, I’m so burned out and ready for vacation that I’m ready to be anywhere where I don’t have to deep-clean my kitchen every night.
And then, two months later, pile-poil, I find myself here, in a state of mind where I wonder how I ever could have gotten bored of such a place.
It happens slowly.
“I don’t know if I’ll go back… I’ve been going for four years quand-même, maybe it’s time for something different…”
“Next year we have to make a treasure hunt for the kids! …If I go back, I mean…”
To now, where suddenly, the idea of not going back doesn’t even cross my mind. All I do is miss it, miss the place, miss the people, miss the fact that even when you wake up on the wrong side of the bed and there’s no more hot water for coffee and you’ve got a zit the size of Alaska growing on your face because you’re stressed and you haven’t slept properly in two days and you can’t remember the last time you took a shower without falling asleep standing up… there’s a little face to come over and ask for a hug and to sit on your lap. And in the end, that makes it all worth it.
Confiture d’abricot de Paziols
1 kilo apricots
1 kilo Confisuc
Wash the apricots and remove the pits. Place in a large, wide bowl with the sugar, and use wooden spoons to crush the fruit and mix it with the sugar.
Transfer the mixture to a heavy-bottomed pot and heat over medium heat until boiling. Cook for seven minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove from the heat and skim the foam from the top. Transfer to washed jars, seal and turn upside down until cool.
Eat when you miss a place, on baguette, mixed into fromage frais, or off the spoon.