Soldier

As I trudged through the mucky and warm metro station yesterday, newly tired from the week behind me, and still battling jet lag, I had to push myself to ascend the hill in Kremlin-Bicetre that would take me to my kiddos. It was will-power forcing me onwards, as I had received an eager phone call from the organizer on Thursday, telling me that when she arrived at the center, the children were diligently compiling recipes, mounting photos, and deciding on what attire to wear to lend to the Indian fare that was to be cooked on Friday. I am not sure if it was more the smell of garlic and thought of kheer (rice pudding of a sort) being served to me with freshly diced almonds, or whether it was due to the thought of the energy that would be present as a result of a morning spent “visiting” the homeland of so many of the children at Enfant du Monde, but either way I allowed myself to robotically move in the direction of the center. My autopilot was turned on as I allowed the heavy rain to drench my leggings and saturate my grocery sac.

As we sat waiting for the hand-made chapatti to finish, I started talking to a group of the girls about their indigenous gods, which of course naturally led into a conversation about the infamous “Soulja Boy” (who, on a side note, is not referred to as a god in Singapore or Rwanda). As I enlightened them with the story about my performance at the Francis-Stevens 8^th grade prom, and promised them that there would be no repeat performances, I smiled thinking that even worlds and religions apart, something as foolish as Soulja Boy could unite.

Yet as lunch progressed and the new young man next to me did not speak, I once again felt a sense of disconnect that permeates my life in France. As I tried in my mangled French to strike up conversation, he turned instead to the educator to his right and asked if I was American. His eyes widened, and silenced followed. It turns out that he is newly arrived from Iran, and had never met an American so casually. Although I am far from an appointed diplomat, I used my very best efforts to make amends, which stemmed from the first word he said to me: “Obama.” I kept the ball rolling as we discussed other tres important Americans such as J.Lo and Madonna. After much conversation, and my olive branch being offered in the form of a color-infused, corn-syrup induced candy cane carefully selected at Target, we were on the right track. Who knows what situation this young man found himself in in Iran. Like most of the other brave boys at Enfant du Monde, chances are he was a real “solider boy.” But as we finished our kheer and I went to get my coat, he whispered to me, “In English I say, “I love you.”” I think I may have just won my battle, all in thanks to a little (colored) sugar and spice.

And, as I settled in for the evening with Matt, supper being the left-over Indian food with the real meat being my story to share, a new solider boy arrived at our door. Those of you who met Reuilly-Diderot a while back will be sad to know that he passed away while we were in America. However, our neighbor and vet, Severine, did her best to nurse Reuilly back to health by entertaining him with the colors and pizzazz found in the container of “Quality Street” candy (in hopes of combating his diagnosed depression). As RD gave in and went to meet his maker (or more like the moldy baguettes in the sewers of Paris), Sev purchased another Japanese fighting fish, and named him Quality Street in honor of Reuilly’s final days. As she tried to show us how she “taught him to be bad” he was non-compliant. Blame it on his ride home on the metro in Tupperware, or being passed off to a new owner, but regardless of the situation, QS seemed defiant. This morning, as I fed him his shrimp and dragged the blue pen across his tank once more (instructions via Sev), his boxing gloves came out. My solider boy is back, and I believe that I am as well.

My departure from America was a battle of its own sort, but as I sit here typing away in my leopard Snuggie (thanks, Micki!), it is time for me to wage and win my own war. The French may never love me (take rude neighbor across the hall who glared at me this morning as a result of me taking my trash out late one night after our kitchen sink pipe broke and flooded the floor, yet to the neighbor depositing trash at 11pm could potentially wake his baby who cries incessantly and all summer long the sound resonated throughout the courtyard) but it is time for me to start loving my time in France. As 2011 has been deemed my year of positivity, my boxing gloves are being pulled out and polished, and I am ready to solider on as well.

Welcome to Quality Street!