Libération

 

 

Photo by Agence Istra, quartier Libération

Libération

    In the queue at the tax office I bandy French with the others… joking and laughing… a hard won privilege, as for five years at least, I lost the power to “speak my person”… jumping enthusiastically into conversation only to feel silence and the chagrin of blank stares.

    Arranging one’s chosen words in another language, serving up a helping of a joke, is a freedom I earned slowly…arising from tenacity, the roving ear of a spy, and a streak of shameless audacity. 

   I think about the idea of“metamorphosis” now while sitting out front in the newly minted“French Coffee Shop”.  It’s among all the other cafes here in my preferred quarter: “ Liberation”, an apt name, with its towering trees, mix of old and young chatting and choosing from the market stalls that punctuate the pavement most mornings. We’re free of traffic here too.  Only the sleek trams pass through… gliding along without a fuss like helpful garden snakes.  

     I sit in the October sun content to contemplate an imposing facade before me. It is art “deco”with female“mascaron”and a giant limestone dragonfly, a crumbling white relic with soft green shutters, and a faded dignity.

    She speaks to me of another Nice…of opulence and verve and for no good reason my mind leaps back to Paris, 1937, before the worst fears…with Mistinguette singing “Je Cherche un Millionaire”.  Who knows, she might have stayed here across from me when this edifice was modern and arrogant with youth. 

     That was another time with other folks, not so different from us, really…stopping at sidewalk cafes to pass the time, jollying babies or dogs.  A few may be jotting notes, as I am now, my “Venoise” before me….reflecting, gazing..while this oddly chosen life unfolds perfectly around me.