Category Archives: France
So, in order to commemorate these tenth Gay Games, I have decided to pen my very own over-the-top, saccharinely sincere Pindaric ode. Let’s hope it’s not, well, terrible.
Danke, Louise. Obrigada, João. Merci, Jess. Gracias, Vera.
I am the fifth stranger here, and perhaps the strangest of them all. I am passing through this place. This will be my only night in the city, and then I will be gone.
In your last days in this little town, you will start to see things as you saw them in the first days.
I think when we look down on children it’s because we have momentarily, or perhaps chronically, forgotten that little kid inside earnestly whispering, “Don’t forget me. I’m still here.”
Wood and silver,
Vessel of the divine
And of acceptance
Eventually you have to look these fears in the face, and you have to sit with the things, both true and false, that you believe about yourself.
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.