do you ever find yourself envious, so green it makes you want to scream? back in February, i bought Gael Greene's memoir, and then placed it on the shelf in my room where it just sat. i'm fascinated by what little i know of her, but never wanted to read it out of fear, because what little i know of her makes me kind of jealous.
tonight, may 16, after some wine, i grabbed the book off of the shelf and read the last bit in the book, "Gael Greene on Gael Greene". and it did nothing but fuel my envy. envy is not a pretty emotion. i read these few autobiographical passages and i am upset that i did not write them myself . i could have; they, in a way, represent me, perhaps as i once was, or always wanted myself to be. especially on this particular day when i am so homesick for France that i could cry.
it's not often that i'm homesick for France. in fact, i do love living in the U.S, having the opportunities that i do. but here i am, a month before my 41st birthday and i find myself wanting more out of my life. the need to travel back to Europe. my mom's studio in the very antiseptically clean lower 17th arrondissement, an area nobody loves but which i loved walking the empty streets at night - the best part about living in vanilla-land is that nobody else is around past 10 pm, the streets belong to you. fortunately, you'll never find a soul in the Porte Maillot area late at night.
Dear Gael Greene, when i grow up, i want to be you. isn't that juvenile? i think so. but surely my life is far from over. if i could, i 'd jet off to France like i used to. i've sat in the Deux Magots and soaked it all in, wishing i'd remember every detail. i walked past the Louvre at 7 am on my way to meet a work client (very un-French, that time of morning; but it was necessary), watching the sun rise through the panes of glass of the pyramid. i walked the length of the rue de Rivoli all the way up to the Place de la Concorde, stopping several times along the way for un demi - for the early September heat caused all residents to flee their un-airconditioned rooms and people watch in the cafés.
i will most likely regret this outburst of feeling tomorrow, but so be it.
Dear France, will i ever see you again? The pain i feel tonight seems surreal, naive , and very silly. so be it.
me in the garden at the Hotel Etoile-Pereire, 1998