Category Archives: France
I learned to love the fall, to really love it, at the foothills of the French Alps, in October, two months after my friend drowned in Lake Michigan.
These three things struck me about the way Gopnik writes about place. Perhaps they contain a few lessons that will help us in writing about where we’re from, where we are, and where we’re yet to go.
Bobby pin located by companion, lock picking commenced. She picks. I pick. The lock is deemed unpickable.
Last fall, my much-delayed Megabus dropped me off in Chinatown at 2:30 a.m. I had seven percent battery life, four dollars in cash, and no idea how to get to Brooklyn.
I am having a conversation in broken English outside a bar with a man named Matthieu. He brought up the attacks before I did, which is good, because I was terrified to bring it up, and not even sure if I should. “You are from New York, so you understand,” he explained.
So we turned our backs on the ocean and found one of the last things we expected to find on the beach in France: a ping pong tournament.
There is security in thinking that I don’t own a gun or make prejudicial proclamations to my friends or have a backwoods-y bowl-cut. If I can see a villain, I can know I’m not one.
…Now what?, we wondered. Do you buy a bumper sticker or put a note up on Facebook? (Not that those are bad things, but they sure seem to fall short.)
The people whom we admire immensely, whom we rely on earnestly, turn out to be merely people. They don’t know everything; they can’t do everything; They let us down.