Flight Paris-Chicago
Wednesday, 10th November 2004. 12:34 p.m.
Terminal 1. Boarding area. Charles de Gaulle Airport.
Dear Flora,
Here I am, sitting on an orange bench, writing this letter to you, and using my big rucksack as a desk. I’m writing these few words while still in France. There’s a greenish stain on my white trousers, I must have rubbed them against the muddy coachwork of a car, parked in the poky, endless parking lot of this puzzling airport. In the rush, mom tried to rub the stain out with the tap water from the bathroom. There are still little traces. It wouldn’t vanish.
I sprawl on the bench, as if I were exhausted. I’m here, writing to you since it’s always more exciting than writing to myself. I have to admit that my eyes misted over a bit. I’ve got a knot in my stomach, my chest hurts as if I were about to take an exam… If I can’t write it down, then who can I spit it out to? Let’s be honest: now that I’m about to leave, now that it would be complicated to back out, I have my heart in my mouth.
I’m scared because I’m going far away from my family, to a country where I know absolutely no one. You were there when I decided. I decided to leave, to travel and to ‘discover the world’, as you said so often.
You know, Flora, I held my tears back a bit in the car. But despite my promises, I broke down as we were going up in the elevator, from the underground parking lot to the terminal. My sister was pushing the heavy trolley carrying 46 kilos of my French life, packed for a 9-month school year in America. This stay is a three-year renewable term if I feel like it: my US visa lasts 3 years. I’ll be far from my family and the ones I love.
You pushed me to do it. You, my best friend. I remember you saying, ‘You need to travel while you’re young.’ And then this job offer as a teacher in a French-American school was ‘a golden opportunity!’ But I can tell you, that when you’re ready to leave for real, leaving everything behind, then it’s way different than your nice theories. ‘Travel broadens the mind’, you said.
Here and now, minutes before boarding, an ever stronger and more unpleasant thought comes to my mind. What if all your encouragements were hiding your inability to travel? You’ve always told me that everything in life can be reversed, that you could change everything with a snap of your fingers, and that therefore nothing and no one could stop you from taking a step and leaving everything behind: leaving France, Paris, your apartment on the 7th floor without an elevator, your job in publishing, your current lover, to go on an adventure, somewhere else, where nobody knows you, and restart everything.
You didn’t even show up at the airport to say goodbye and wish me luck with all the ideas you put inside my head! What if I were your victim, your unwitting lab rat? You, the perfect preacher, you’re actually unable to break free from your habits, to give up your reference points in life, admit it. Flora the intellectual, she who can easily analyze and convince everyone of her vision of life, versus Ninon, the improvised adventurer she who follows, doing what she can, but who is breaking down right now.
It’s horrible. I really feel lonely in front of a vast emptiness. I already know the job I’m going to do there since I’ve been doing it for a few years here in France. That’s why I applied for it, and that’s why they hired me. And then what? Every decision was taken too fast, on a whim. Maybe I made a mistake…
I should never have listened to you. I should never have started writing this letter to you.
I won’t send this letter anyway.
Ninon
Brian
The wave is way stronger than he is. He is only 6.2 ft, 1,90 m. The currents of the Ocean are way more powerful but he knows them well. He knows where they start, where they end. He is 220 pounds, around 100 kg. The waters of the Pacific shaped his muscles, his arms, and legs, his Titan-like figure… he has known them since he was a child. The ocean is his element. His skin tanned under the Californian sun is omnipresent. As is his brown hair, slightly burnt by salty water. He has an eagle tattooed on his right flank as a symbol of freedom. A legacy of his father, who wore the exact same tattoo on his arm. A heritage from his grandfather: the Spring family is keen on tradition. Brian Spring is a pure Californian product.
{…}
First, the ocean is his object of study. Because Brian is an oceanographer. Second, it’s his best friend. Because Brian is a surfer.
From October to March, in his black surf suit, Brian, one of San Diego’s best surfers, fades away in the turquoise of the coast and the dark blue shades of the horizon. Whenever tides are high or low, he knows. He knows where and when and how and why. He loves the Pacific Ocean more than he loves himself. It’s his element, be it calm or unrelenting, his element which spews a phosphorescent foam in the nights of April. This strange phenomenon may surprise a traveler who is new to California, who finds him or herself enthralled at this glimmer emanating from the invisible inhabitant of the abyss, phytoplankton, which glows like a marine firefly during the Red Tide.
{…}
One day, Brian was taking part in a marine biology colloquium and concluded: ‘We, human beings, learn about who we are through the infinitely large or the infinitely small. I chose to study the kingdom of the microscopic, the one that eludes us during the day, but that we can grasp at night. As if it was a magical being, phytoplankton becomes phosphorescent at night. But the wave needs to move for it to become visible. Phytoplankton is thus proof that we need motion and darkness to catch sight of the light and the existence of things. This is both
a beautiful paradox and the origin of mankind’s greatest suffering. No life without motion. No light without dark dreams.’
Flight Chicago-San Diego
Here I am, taking my second flight to reach my destination in California. I passed through customs control without hindrance at O’Hare airport in Chicago: West coast, here I come! I’m heading to San Diego!
An ice floe, spreading as far as the eye can see. An ice floe made of clouds. That’s what I see from my window. The movie that was shown on the plane, Spider-Man 2, amused me a bit. Spider-Man who leaps nimbly from wall to wall, higher, always higher, further… He sticks to walls, adheres to any surface; he jumps, he climbs. Flying further, taking great leaps, everywhere. No obstacles. Freedom. I’d like to be able to do that, but how? To be as free as Spider Man. To spin webs far and wide, to be ubiquitous, to be French, but above all, to be a citizen of the world: to belong to the tribe of Spider-Women!
Through my window, the cloud floe becomes ever thicker, ever whiter, evermore dazzling. It soon becomes too hard to gaze at.
My watch, still set on the French time zone, shows 10:15 PM.
Here in Chicago, it’s about 4:00 PM.
I’ll need to find a post office in this country I still don’t know, in this city that’s going to be mine. A city where I’m going to teach French to French kids, American kids, and kids of other nationalities: my new life as a teacher in San Diego, a traveler, and a teacher. I’ll need to buy a stamp to send this letter from the USA to France. If I really want to send it, that is… if I finally want to start a new life…
Adieu, Flora. I don’t know when we will see each other again.
Ninon
Andrew
Brian was barely eight years old when he first stood on a surfboard. He and his father would go surfing every Saturday and Sunday just like a French father would go for a run in the forest with his son to build up stamina and to take some fresh air among the century-old trees.
{…}
Andrew, Brian’s father, starts paddling with all his arms’ strength to enter into communion with the speed of the wave beneath the surfboard. Faster, faster, ever faster…
{…}
The man is at one with the surfboard, and the surfboard and the wave dance together in harmony. {…} Brian’s father would often say to his son: ‘Listen and feel the wave. She speaks a peculiar language when we slide in unison.’
{…}
One day, Andrew told Brian: ‘This is how the wave is brought to life. This is how the tradition has been passed on from father to son since surfboarding was invented in Hawaii. I am quite sure it already existed when James Cook, discovered Hawaii, back in the 18th century. We will never know how history was written, it will always depend on where you are. But I am telling you, son, I can feel something. The Pacific Ocean created surfboarding.’
{…}
You either surf on your own to face your fears, or you surf with others, in a healthy competition that federates, encourages, and makes you want to give your best. Andrew used to say: ‘We meet to surf together and to thrill together because there is nothing better than to live with others according to the law of nature.’
In the American sky
I am breathing deeply but slowly, and I listen to the sound of the air coming in and out of my oppressed lungs. The conditioned air is cold, really cold. It hurts my throat. What if I wanted to get out of the plane? Turning back would be hard now. I can only count on myself to calm down. This new life will become whatever I make of it. Me alone. New friends. My family is in France. New friends – will they become a new family? Impossible. That’s what going to live elsewhere is about. Changing everything. Start anew. A revival, fresh. I’ll get myself a new skin: my freedom.
Nonsense.
I’m twenty-eight. A little bit old to begin a new life far from my loved ones. ‘To travel is to free yourself.’ Flora, I can still see you speaking these patronizing words. You… maker of maxims and sayings. Freeing myself from you – who do you think you are, La Rochefoucault?- Thank you very much.
…
1:25 PM. My seat on the plane, 31G, is right next to the window. I cannot turn back anymore. I can’t even tilt my seat back, it must be stuck. Just my luck. Seat 31G.
They made me wait after the glass door for a body search. The American customs officers. I don’t know, I couldn’t understand their English – what a good omen (lucky I’m going to teach French!). In the end, they did not find the time to look through all the pockets of my bag, the bag I selected among the dozen I own. The chosen one, my travel companion. At least it won’t bore me with stupid sayings.
My family must be back home now. I hope mom is not too sad. Buckled up, yes. My big bag is on my feet, okay, rather under the passenger seat. Don’t the flight attendants get bored of always asking the same questions and always explaining the same things? A nasty smell is coming from the feet of the man sitting next to me. I hope he’s not peeking at my writings to forget about his boredom. I hope he’s one of those Americans who don’t know how to speak French! I remember you offhandedly mentioned, ‘In America, few people speak anything other than…’ You pushed me to go, but you hold America in contempt, don’t you Flora? The screen built into the seat in front of me is displaying a map of the world. Maybe it’s the passenger in front of me who has stinky feet, not the one on my left…
ETA (Estimated time of arrival): 6:22 PM. Destination: San Francisco, scheduled flight time: 4 hours 20 minutes.
I’m traveling over America. It’s my first time crossing the continent. I wonder what I’ll look like when I come back…. And when will I come back?
I need to stop writing to calm myself down.
Writing in this state of mind is useless.
Ninon
The Chinese people
Kate has already turned back, in her candy pink flip-flops. She had just the time to turn her sea-green eyes away from her buddies. All of them understood (except one: Debbie) that she would have burst into tears if she had stayed any longer in this conversation which didn’t seem to mean anything but meant too much for a day like today.
Heading for the Geisel Library of the University of California San Diego, walking briskly, Kate, whose eyes are suddenly misting over, can at least find comfort in her waterproof mascara. The pain won’t disfigure her with shameful black lines while passing past the library reception staff. You don’t cry in public in the States: Everything is fine, everything is perfect, ok?
That’s it: sniffed sorrow, and her neurons are awake and ready to study.
{…}
Nobody is reluctant to take a part-time job before they find the perfect job. Here, in the country of two weeks of holidays per year, nobody is reluctant to take jobs at all. The “job”, that’s what we’re here for. At UCSD, like at every private US university, Ivy League or not, you live to work, and vice versa.
It’s 6:20 PM. Kate, the Californian girl, and her Chinese-Californian friend are both dreaming of their future, while they should come back to the present and write their History presentation. Kate smiles at her, she smiles back. Then, she lowers the music of her iPod earphones not to disturb the Philippine boy sitting next to her, who has just given her a sidelong look.
{…}
On July 1st, 1862, President Lincoln signed the Pacific Railroad Act, thus allowing two companies – Central Pacific and Union Pacific – to begin the construction of the Transcontinental. This linked the coasts and enabled the East-to-West trip by land in only eight days, instead of the long months of trips by the ocean through the Cape Horn or the isthmus of Panama.
{…}
Three-quarters of the 4,000 workers who built the Transcontinental in 1868 were Chinese. We can understand why historians agree that Chinese involvement in this one-of-a-kind railroad project largely helped to complete it, especially with the final record of the ten miles of railroad built and installed in
one day, on April 28, 1869. It is no coincidence that the team chosen to accomplish this challenge was mainly made up of Chinese workers.
Kate smiles in front of her computer screen, meanwhile, the girl sitting next to her is staring at her, as much intimidated by her fast typing as by her look of satisfaction at the work done. Kate will add some pictures to her essay on a PowerPoint: one representing Chinese people wearing their famous conical hat and working in the snow, another showing a cosmopolitan team of white, black, and Indian workers, all sharing the effort. Kate thinks that it would be amazing if her Chinese neighbor was directly descended from one of those transcontinental periods Chinese workers! It’s possible, her father talked a lot about that: Kate herself is descended from a French great-great-great (who-knows-how-many-times) great-mother from Bordeaux, the French city of wine her father praised a lot. This distant explorer, a certain Geneviève, foremother from whom she still carries genes in her Californian DNA, is said to have migrated to America, alone, single, and arrived in California during the Gold Rush! And on this point, Kate stops what she was doing, bends down and, picks up her gym bag. It seems she opened the long zipper a little noisily: the boy sitting on the left is glancing at her.
She carefully takes a brown velvet pouch out of the bottom of her bag and puts it on her desk. Her neurons are buzzing, but she slows her movements as she draws the small, somewhat rusty zip of the pouch, the size of a large pocketbook.
It is November 10, 2004. A year after her father died, and as promised, Kate opens it.
Meticulously covered with slightly transparent brown paper, the book seems to be seeing the light for the first time in many years. The boy next to Kate glances at her and squints, distracted but curious. There is a yellowing sticker on the transparent paper wrapping the book. On it, Kate reads the heavy words written by her father with a black ink fountain pen. It is the first time she is reading these words:
VERY IMPORTANT manuscript.
— Family Heritage —
Geneviève Legrand.
1849
The Dolphin
Brian is eleven years old. It is Sunday. He and his father are astride their surfboard, afloat, awaiting and admiring the horizon and the promise of beautiful waves the ocean had to offer. All of a sudden, just as everything seemed peaceful and the pace of the waves was slowing down, a dolphin, almost as big as Brian, leapt from the ocean right in front of them! Its shiny grey skin draws a majestic curve, right there in front of their eyes as if it were there to celebrate the duo of father and son amidst Nature, this whole that the world of surfing allowed them to be a part of. The father says to the son:
— The dolphin comes to remind us we are a part of this world. It comes to tell us we belong here. That all our efforts to belong to the ocean are worth it, son. If the force of humans and the force of water are joined, the dolphin can feel it and comes to manifest its presence to be in communion with us.
Brian and his father are staring at the dolphin jumping out of the water at a regular pace, creating perfect smooth circles. A semicircle underwater and a semicircle in the air: the circle is complete. Brian is speechless. It is the first time he has seen a dolphin so close, only meters away from him, radiant in all its glory and completely free.
— Dad, I know why humans invented surfing.
— Oh really, why?
— They saw dolphins jumping very high out of the water! They saw them do acrobatics and draw waves. He then thought: why should we not do the same?
— It must be true, Brian…
*
Brian lost his father a year ago, in November. Earlier in the morning, his father went surfing but a storm came in: he never came back. It is 8:40 am. Brian has been riding the morning waves in memory of him for two hours, but now it is time for Brian to get out of the water, and go to work. Each time you go surfing, you always remember which wave you managed to master better than the other ones. He thought about his father a lot as he stood on the board for a few seconds, catching the wave. He could feel the alchemy between him, the water and the power of the ocean. The same ocean his father deeply loved. Brian is lost in his thoughts and holds his surfboard under his arm. He gets out of the
water, soon he is walking across the dry sand to the parking lot to his black Ford pickup truck. Suddenly, after turning his head to the left to check how many surfers are still in the sacred water, something dark between the backwash and the wet sand catches his attention. It is long and about three hundred meters away from him. He cleans his eyes misted by salt and sunlight. But what is that thing wriggling over there? Like attracted, Brian diverts from the parking lot to walk in its direction. He gets closer, blinks, and raises his hand to shield his eyes. He tries to identify the shape of what seems to be beached by the water’s edge. His bare feet are leaving footprints in the wet sand which disappear, as Brian gets closer to what caught his attention and that he fears to recognize It is right in front of him, right in front of his eyes, only a meter away from him. Brian is standing in the shiny wet sand. A dolphin is lying at his feet It is still moving but seems to be injured or trapped. It is a beached dolphin, almost paralyzed. It is stuck in two centimeters of water by the beach, wriggling. Brian’s first reaction is to push it away to help it back into the deep. But he is powerless in the face of the incredibly heavy and impressive animal. The dolphin is huge and almost as big as him.
It was then that, for the first time in twenty years, Brian recalls his father’s words:
‘And when they feel death coming, the dolphins run themselves aground, crawling on the beach to die silently, all alone and far from the others.’
A dolphin out of water usually wriggles slightly each time a wave sweeps his flanks, it can still touch the water he knows so well while leaving the ocean. The dolphin has decided to run itself aground, to lie by the beach as if it were its winding-sheet until death comes.
And this unusual meeting occurred on the anniversary of the passing of his father.
It is 9:00 am. Brian should leave to go to work. He will be late, but here he is still, standing with a gaze lost to the blurry horizon as the salt, the sunlight and his child’s tears redden his eyes. He could feel the wind skimming his wet cheek. He is right there, standing barefoot in a few centimeters of water, right where a dolphin from the Pacific Ocean is dying.
Genevieve
It is 7 PM. It must be said: the Geisel Library at UCSD is a rather anachronistic place to discover such treasure. Just a year ago, Brian and Kate’s father bequeathed to them a pouch, an item of so-called childhood memorabilia. They swore to him they would wait a year before opening it. He would always take this solemn tone from another time when he would speak to his children:
‘ I’d love to be present in my own way, when my body no longer is. Once I’ve spent one year in the realm of the souls, the day will come for you to open this gift from a different era.’
Kate and Brian agreed that this day would be today and that it would be the sister’s duty to take the velvet pouch (which had been preserved, so far, in a metallic box placed in a closet, at Brian’s). Kate would open the pouch, alone at the library. Why? Because she has more free time on her hands than her brother and his overloaded schedule.
Furthermore, Brian works at Scripps Institution of Oceanography: not really the best place to open Daddy’s legacy.
*
The pouch is unzipped and the book uprooted from its velvet protection. Now, Kate must gather the courage to peel off and unfold this transparent cover of browned paper, without doing any damage.
Like a gift one might discover, she now has in her hands a thick notebook covered with red leather binding. God, does this book look old! The leather cover is slightly stained on the top, the corners are bent… but for a book of almost 200 years old, it remains in quite good condition. Surreptitiously, Kate looks to her right and left, making sure that none of her friends, sitting nearby, is observing her. Then off she goes, back into her bubble, as she inhales deeply. She thinks about her dad. He must be watching her, right from above, much higher than the Geisel library’s 8th floor. And she opens the book at the first page.
{…}
My diary
Thursday, February 17th, 1849. Aboard the Dee, a ship belonging to the West India Company. Boarding at Southampton.
1 PM. How crowded is the dock of the English port! One at a time, they all wait their turn to board our fine ship. English, Germans, Dutch, Spanish but also some French that I met and recognized by their romantic appearance….Ah! How far away Bordeaux is already!
And how I already cherish our Dee so much…
2.14 PM. The die is cast for us, those who have chosen to leave, to walk away from everything! May God protect us during this journey of several months.
Oh, the things I’ve read in newspapers and reviews… the things I’ve heard in the streets of Bordeaux, these streets known for their decadence and their made-up stories… I’ve decided to ignore all of it. I leave to see for myself, and I have never felt as free as today.
Our ship is splitting the waves as I write. Salty droplets are even splashing on my notebook, even as its first pages have just bloomed… The Dee, our guardian angel, is leading us to a new life, my new life that I’m writing about today. Here I am, ready for a long journey, ready for California!
*
What beautiful quill and ink handwriting! The excitement can be felt through the brown letters. One problem, though: it’s in French. Why hadn’t Kate taken French as an optional course two years ago, when she first got to UCSD? Her father had urged her to do so! He was the last of his family line to talk this language, from the Old Continent. A legacy now lost… What to do, now?
As carefully as she might carry a relic, Kate holds in her hand the red leather of the book cover, which still bears the fingerprints of another woman. She turns the pages carefully, to look ahead in the story, but still can’t decipher it. Her eyes are mesmerized by these unfathomable pages. Yet, in the waves of the
almost hieroglyph-like writing, she can feel the turmoil and the thrill of the author. The great-great-great…granddaughter contemplates the words in awe, some in a shaky hand, written by her ancestor. The sea breeze and the weather of the time have yellowed the pages… as have the years that have elapsed between then and now… Those long years when the history of her family was written, the history of her state, and the history of her country, the United States.
John
April 11th, 1849. San Francisco, The Eldorado. In our game house.
I really am busy these days! All the girls have their hands full. The Eldorado is my new territory: I live, work and eat in The Eldorado, and I also sleep there because we each have a small room on the upper floor. In short, everything happens here. Because all the girls get along so well, the atmosphere reflects the complete success of our business. Even I am surprised by the crowd that have been coming in these last two weeks. John has come back and that makes me happy. Among all the miners that I have met, and God knows how many come by here, he is my favorite. I think he likes me too… Even if we still struggle to communicate. My English isn’t perfect, but I’m not the worst among the girls.
*
Thursday, May 5th, 1849
John, John, John… He hasn’t come back for a week and I am suffering from his absence. They say that some miners from San Francisco went to another placer farther inland. Is that another gold rush? I think I am in love.
What should I do?
The Meeting
“Ah! THE Meeting!” I can already hear you losing patience, Flora. Somewhere in my head, I can hear your voice: “Come on, tell me!” Even in your silence, you are the one listening to me, you are still my confidante. So, here is the story.
It was on Saturday, November 20th, 2004. Two weeks after I landed at San Diego. Two extremely intensive weeks, I might add: preparing my lessons, teaching them, having meetings with the teaching staff, all the paperwork and the appointments necessary to get my social security number… Anyhow, my junior high school students are lovely. They all speak two or three languages and come from different backgrounds. Of course, I am their teacher, but we can also say they are mine too! So, a colleague had invited me to a party organized by Scripps on the Saturday in question. This was a step back into the world of the pioneers, because Scripps is the marine scientific research unit of La Jolla. At its beginning, it was the Marine Biological Association, founded in 1903 by a journalist, philanthropist and businesswoman, Ellen Browning Scripps. What a great example of a woman taking the lead! Nowadays, at Scripps they are developing research on marine biotechnology and biomedicine, geophysics, climate, atmosphere: in short, on the nature of our planet. Brian is a member of the team of oceanographer engineers. That’s why he was there tonight, near the pool table where my colleague, her husband and he were about to start playing. Brian. Diana asked me in French if I wanted to play. I said I’d rather watch them for a bit because, well, I’d never played pool before. A few moments later, since Diana was talking passionately about je ne sais quoi with Brian, I got closer on purpose to try and follow their conversation. Even though my English was not yet good enough to detect the cause of their knowing laughs mixed with the clink of giant pints of beer, I pretended to be interested, and that’s how my discovery of Brian, this man from the West Coast, began: short dark hair, slightly tanned, a smooth, deep voice, with this typical Californian accent in my inexperienced, cliché-filled ear, a voice that already carried me away, because I felt I was immersing myself in a Hollywood movie.
[…]
Brian. I could perceive in his already familiar voice something mythical that fitted divinely with the so-generous and shining smile of this handsome Californian in his t-shirt, flip-flops and baseball cap. Our eyes must have met quickly because Diana hurried to introduce us. In America, you don’t stand on ceremony. “This is Ninon. This is B…” I didn’t get anything. I made him repeat his name three times. The music was loud, my eardrums were swollen by the song playing at that moment – which one? I can’t remember. Since I was feeling very dumb, I went all out to look doe-eyed, acting as if I were shy: a sweet little French face that built our reputation as cute girls for the Americans. Apparently, he liked it because he didn’t stop smiling at me during the entire pool game. I was the perfect cliché of the French girl who can’t really speak English but who is “very sexy”. It seems that it’s easy to accept some cultural clichés (except those we hate), when it suits our purposes. Brian… At the end of the night, I dared ask him a question – simple, but useful to know when flirting: “Could I have your phone number?” Brian smiled playfully at me. My accent was awful (for us, French people), but terribly cute for him as an American. “Of course!” he answered, his eyes sparkling. I didn’t know my phone number by heart yet, so I handed him my cell phone and he called himself with it. We both wanted to meet again: it was mutual, it was simple, it was obvious. Destiny. After those crazy days in our twenties, Flora, I can tell that I needed this beautiful destiny so much!
Dream creator
“Catch a dream with your imagination” is the new definition of the verb “create”. My story with Brian began thanks to a dreamcatcher I created. Me, the dream creator in the land of the American dream. How bold I am, I know.
Slow Mo
San Diego, the last American city on the map before the concrete wall at the Mexican border, a wall that some illegal immigrants cross, risking their lives. It’s thirty minutes away from Mexico, just a stone’s throw from Tijuana by trolleybus. San Diego, the city where life is good, everyone smiles and it’s always sunny: California’s El Dorado, El Dorado’s El Dorado. San Diego, the city of superlatives: the furthest, the prettiest, the warmest, the most attractive city, where every American dreams to go one day, ideally during their university years, or during Spring Break, or in the worst case when they retire! San Diego, the last city on the West Coast, but also the first of a series of twenty-one Spanish missions, which, back then, reached San Francisco. Thus, the mission of San Diego de Alcalá was founded on July 16th 1769, by friar Junípero Serra. San Diego was first the famous epic of a mission, then of a city, which was by turns free, conquered, colonized, then liberated.
Native Americans… Nowadays, they just populate a few isolated reserves in the uninhabited deserts of the American continent. They sell us pearl necklaces, colored earrings, turquoise rings, and dreamcatchers on our way out of national parks that once were their natural habitat, their element. Even here in Pacific Beach, we’ll sometimes spot one of their descendants, a sad member of the tribe of the can-collecting homeless, a modern tribe whose existence will forever overshadow the famous “Pursuit of happiness” foreseen by the Declaration of Independence. Back then, there were 560 tribes. Today, of the whole population of the United–States, just 4.5 million are Native Americans. 2 million, if we exclude those who are mixed-race. Meaning 1.5% of the population. It’s what the conquest has left. Here was their home… but today we can call them a “population on the brink of extinction”.
Freeway 5 North
I’m driving, I’m flying. No interruption in this fluent, steady rhythm. I am like everyone else, and everyone else is like me. We drive, following the wave, in the same direction, at 60 miles per hour, as they say here. There’s nothing to stop us, no traffic jams today…. It’s 11 A.M. I’ve got my music blasting out, all four windows open, and the wind is tousling and drying my wet hair. My sunglasses protect my eyes from the dazzling – yet so pleasant – sunshine caressing the skin on my left arm, casually resting on the sill. I’m basking in the sun. I’m driving on Freeway 5 North of my Eldorado. I’m in heaven, or I’m going to heaven – or at least to see the City of Angels. Destination Los Angeles indeed. Like everyone else. They do as I do. Doesn’t matter what we’re all going to do there… doesn’t matter why we’re all going there. Whatever, we are all flying in the same direction, with the same momentum, with the same unstoppability, the same lyricism, caught up as we are in the same driving epic- and I’m driving towards the man I love!
*
I’ve been driving for more than an hour: my hands haven’t let go of the steering wheel, my eyes haven’t stopped looking at the horizon straight ahead. I’m under hypnosis.
A text from Brian just came through: I read it quickly. He had a meeting with scientists from Munich the whole day. It went well. He will wait for me at the burrito truck, right next to the stadium. “Big hug”. Big hug, of course, my dear Brian… and we can do even more than that, whenever you want!
On the freeway, everybody is focused: we are all set on our goal rather than the path we have to take to reach it. We never observe a place as well as when we feel like a stranger in it. My eyes are riveted on the horizon straight ahead before me. I drive, hypnotized. Now, I glance to my left for a couple of seconds. The Pacific Ocean’s horizon is right there, right next to me, magnificent and infinite.
Will it be tonight that Brian and I share our first kiss?
I pray for this moment, and at the same time, I’ve delayed it because I’m nervous about it.
Anyway, thankfully my shyness did not discourage him: he kept inviting me to discover his culture.
He seems determined, this West Coast guy… Then my eyes look back to the horizon of the road before me, the freeway flowing below my tires. And then, once again, I glance back to the ocean on my left, then the road in front, the ocean then the road, the ocean… a hypnotic rhythm repeating itself: road, ocean, road, ocean… Road… Tears are running down my cheeks at the sight of all this beauty… I am filled with happiness and so grateful to be here, to live here, and to drive here. Now I’m getting goosebumps despite the heat. Goosebumps never lie. And yet, the sun has been bathing me for an hour now. I bless this moment. I bless my life. I bless California.
Thank you.
Surf Lesson
How to start 2005 well? This Saturday, January 1st 2005, I went surfing for the first time in my life! I’m still emotional about it. Initiation rite. Let me immortalize in writing this first surf lesson with my private coach.
We went out early this morning: Brian picked me up at 6:20 a.m., we drove to the ocean at La Jolla Shores, a beach near the laboratory, in his black pickup. At 7 a.m., we put our black surf suits on, attached the leashes to our ankles, the surfboards under our arms. First trial for me: my arm is too short, I can’t hold my giant longboard on my own! But apparently, beginners like me need a longboard this heavy. So Brian helped me carry it, and we finally put our equipment on the sand and did a few warm-ups before going into the water. I felt both excited and worried though, because I was still affected by my dream during the night, a surreal, scary scenario. In that dream, Brian and I were astride our surfboards, next to each other. It was night.
[…]
It was incredibly beautiful, but I didn’t feel at ease surrounded by this beauty. And suddenly, with no transition (as often in our dreams), I saw us, Brian and me – in the same position – in a glass of water, like miniature humans in a gigantic glass of water! And all in a blinding white setting.
We swim together, side by side in the water, and suddenly, Brian points to something out above our heads: a massive fountain pen turning around us, like a helicopter looking for us and finally spotting us! Suddenly, like thunder, like a javelin speeding toward its target, the fountain pen’s tip plunges towards us at top speed: I give a shrill scream, Brian pushes me, moving away as he does so to let the metal pen pierce the transparent water between us.
It was close: the fountain pen almost stabbed my skull! How awful… Around us, I see black ink spreading into the water like an endless black eel that swells, slowly creating waves in the water of the glass…no, of the ocean. Once again, we are in the ocean, and now Brian is holding me in his arms, I can feel and hear his neoprene surf suit against mine, it’s dark, I can’t see him, but I know he is holding me. I don’t know if the dream continues or stops here, I can’t remember. In any case, this fantastic story returned to my mind while, in the reality of this morning, my favorite surf tutor was showing me some moves to warm up my wrists, arms and ankles.
Still on the sand, Brian taught me how to move from a lying position to standing, legs bent on the surfboard. It wasn’t easy! Instinctively, I put my right foot behind, as a support; as for Brian, he put his left foot behind. Opposites attract, right? After this training, here we are finally heading out to conquer the ocean! To begin with, my coach, who is a great teacher, helped me to get used to the move of the wave, staying in the foam, where I could easily touch the floor. When he judged it was the moment to go out to sea to catch some real waves, I started to feel scared again. My dream was coming back more than ever and even if I tried to focus on the situation, my stubborn mind was recreating an apocalyptic version of my ocean dream under the moonlight, with Brian and I trapped by whales who surrounded us as if circling around their prey. I’m so dumb that I had to splash my face with water several times, and even slap myself on the cheek to bring myself out of the hallucination.
[…]
When he asked me to choose my wave, I saw one coming towards me that seemed not to be too high, so I said, pointing it out: “I choose the one that’s coming.” Brian helped me to turn my surfboard so the tip pointed towards the beach and got me into the starting position, getting me to bring my feet back so that the top touched the back end of my surfboard, then asked me: “Are you ready? Ok, now you start to paddle! Paddle, paddle!” I executed his orders, belly against my surfboard, I paddled with all the strength of my arms, under me I felt the wave making my surfboard move and I heard Brian’s voice further and further behind me saying: “Now you stand up, now!!”
Hearing the voice of my guide, me and my body react: I stand up! Left foot in front, right foot behind, everything goes very fast – Oh my God, I’m standing on my surfboard and I’m moving, I’m sliding!! I’m flying, straight ahead, it’s all going very fast, the scenery is going by, that’s it, I’m surfing!!! Aaaah!!! Oh! – And now I lose my balance and I am in the water, flattened against the sand: a big splash. But I surfed! I just surfed, for the first time on this New Year’s Day 2005. In California, yeah! I surfed for a few seconds that felt like an eternity. How free and ecstatic I was! I am like a child, a new-born discovering life for the first time. So, getting out of the water, I turn back to Brian. Where is he? Oh, there he is coming, surfing the next wave, he is handsome.
He jumps off his surfboard. He comes to me. We look at each other, our smiles barely fitting on our faces. I take a deep breath as if I were going to say something…but nothing comes out, except air. A step closer to each other, I jump into his arms.
This morning, it was…maybe 8 a.m.? On this first day of 2005, I went surfing for the first time ever. For the first time ever, I was born again and for the first time ever, Brian and I kissed.
The translation assignment
Brian has entrusted me with his family treasure, his grandmother’s manuscript. We were cuddling on the couch in his living room and after talking a bit about his parents, especially his father, he said to me:
— You are French and you just entered my life. There is no coincidence.
When he handed me this red velvet rectangular pouch, I was scared at first, thinking it was a gift for Valentine’s Day. Flora and I used to say: ‘I’m not against love itself, but I hate the commercialization of love.’ So it is an ordeal for me to experiencethis cursed day in the United States. But, there is no coincidence. In a way, Californians are right to chant this new religion, this credo of the harmonious alignment of humans with the events of the cosmos. Because how could we deny the facts? I comeinto Brian’s life just as he discovers the manuscript his father left him, writtenby his distant ancestor, an authenticFrench woman, Geneviève Legrand, who migrated from Bordeaux to California in around 1849. It’s Valentine’s Day and Brian has asked me to translate Geneviève’s manuscript from French to English. It won’t be easy with my level of English, but I will do it for love, and I will do it for free.
Without me, my dear surfer and his sister won’t know about their family’s story.
It’s tough to begin with. But though my English is still though poor though I sometimes struggle with French syntactic constructions that are hard to translate, with words that are barely readable because of the faded ink, I’m the bridge connecting France to America thanks to this French woman I will never meet. There is no coincidence. When I look at this small leather book, I feel proud and emotional as I discover the life of this adventurous woman thanks to whom these two young Californians exist! There is no coincidence… No: ‘There is no coincidence in life.’ (Well, Miss Flora never told me that saying before!).
Kate was very excited to see my work : first, I will translate everything on my own, without spilling the beans, and I will give them the final draft at the end. Deal! At a rate of one page translated every two days, if I keep up a rapid paceon a daily basis and I set aside some time to review it all at the end, I’ve calculated that my assignment would be complete in almost three years, which will bring us to the end of 2007, which coincides with my visa’s expiration date. There is no coincidence.
Friday May 6th 1849.
John is still not here.
Saturday May 7th.
Nothing. I pray to the Virgin Mary each given day for the return of John alive. We hear so many bad things about the Wild West!
Friday May 13th.
I am dying.
May 17th.
Nothing to report.
May 18th.
No comment.
Friday May 20th 1849.
I live again !
He had been on a pilgrimage to Coloma, on the Sacramento river, where the gold rush began at the fort owned by the famous Swiss John Sutter!
He told me some historical facts, information which hadn’t yet crossed the Atlantic, at the moment I left my country.
John realized that the sawmill that was under construction at Sutter’s was eventually abandoned. Even though Sutter was the property owner at the time the spectacular turn of events occurred, the poor man unfortunately never profited from the discovery of gold on his land! He was almost driven off his property due to the impromptuinflux of hundreds and hundreds of miners from all along the Californian coastline. They also came from across America and Europe, of course, with for instance our famous Compagnie des Lingots d’or[1], but they also came from Asia, and, in totally disorderly fashion, they all started ‘squatting’ (as they say) the banksof the new gold mine!
What is even more incredible, John told me, is that the man who found gold in the Coloma creek – and caused gold fever across the globe – was a mere temporary employee!
One cold January morning, this man who could have remained anonymous, a certain Marshall, stopped at Sutter’s to earn himself some money before resuming his journey to the Great Salt Lake in Utah. He was helping dig a canal for the mechanical sawmill when he accidentally discovered a yellowish metal that was first thought to be copper, but turned out to be pure gold. When Marshall brought some gold flakes to Sutter, Sutter understood the impact of the discovery and didn’t want to disclose it, but his workers were already taking gold nuggets to the San Francisco markets. It seems that the journalist and founder of the ‘California Star’ newspaper, Samuel Brannan, got hold of the news and ran through the streets shouting ‘Gold! Gold! Gold from the American River!’
We can easily understand why the small town of San Francisco, of 271 inhabitants back then, is still noticeably growing. And this growth has barely begun: other waves of immigration are forecast, everyone says it here! As for me, I can see it too: more and more steamers arrive in the city’s harbor every day. You only have to look at the abundance of new customers at the Eldorado! One cannot help wondering whether there will be enough gold and enjoyment for everyone…
[1] The Company of Gold Ingots.
Freeway 5 South
Next stop San Diego!
Freeway 5 South, my journey in reverse.
I’m on my way to join Brian, the man I love and who loves me. This is it, we’re officially boyfriend and girlfriend. I now feel 100% Californian!
I’m driving, flying, stepping on the accelerator, and slightly exceeding the speed limit. This time, I’m driving from North to South.
Homecoming.
I turn the radio on, tomorrow’s weather will be hot and sunny, says KPBS News. Let’s go for another frequency, 94.9 FM, who’s singing this time? Gnarls Barkley! Crazy! I’m dancing in my seat, and I love it. […]
I turn the radio off. A melody has just popped into my head. I am hearing a song like you might have a vision. Is it a foresight? A creation sparked by the experience of driving? So many of my compositions were born the way of this new one, in my car, on the freeway. Just enough time to bend down and look for some paper, but there is none, so I go for the tissue box. I quickly grab a Sharpie sandwiched between the two front seats, right next to my vacuum flask which is still filled with the now-cold tea I made this morning. On one side of the box I write the chords and lyrics of my new composition born just now, in the traffic jams, here on freeway 5 South. Descending scale, A major. Last time, I freestyled a composition on 5 North. Ascending scale: it seemed obvious.
F…A…F…A…
The Milky Way, our galaxy
And you, do you live in our universe?
F…A…F… A
What I see as big is tiny for you
Tell me, do you live in my universe?
I turn the box over to write on the other side for there’s no more space on the front. One hand scribbling the next lyrics, the other one holding the wheel.
The Milky Way, my galaxy
There’s still enough space to create
A planet for you and me
Although it does not always spin straight
E major, D major, E…D…
My doubts and all my questionings
I carry them despite you
Each way and detour pushing us apart
B minor…C sharp minor…
From so many time zones
B minor… C sharp minor…
This jet lag will cost both of us too dear
[…]
I’ve been driving for nearly four hours and I’m finally close to San Diego.My beautiful and peaceful San Diego. Hills around us are carpeted with succulent plants of a vivid green, interspersed here and there by purple blooms. The kind of flowers that, as far as I know, are only seen in indoor pots. The sun will set in a few hours, accompanied by the obligatory green flash. I’m still wearing my sunglasses.
Looking for my exit…Cardiff: no…Encinitas: Not that one either…Solana Beach…Carlsbad…Del Mar…: we’re getting closer…ah, a sign! Upcoming exit “La Jolla Village Drive”? That’s mine!
I recognize in the distance the landmark I understand as a “Welcome to your city” sign: it’s the big Mormon temple, that enormous structure near the freeway, so bright and indented it looks like a huge origami in the sunlight. It means I’m entering San Diego and will soon be in the neighborhood of La Jolla. Damn, traffic jams again! I take the opportunity to read Brian’s text message:
“I’m leaving work now, going home to change. See you soon, babe!”
Here it is, I’m leaving the endless snake formed by the single file of cars, I can put my right indicator on. I’m leaving the relentless Southbound descent of the freeway, I’m leaving the brotherhood of drivers. I’m leaving.
Exit
Wait…Back in a massive traffic jam! […] On my left, cars are still moving faster than mine. I adjust my sunglasses on my nose. I check the skin tone of my arm, of my cleavage. I’m sunbathing at the wheel. A bit asymmetrical, but never mind. I’ll look all the prettier for my date with my Californian. I close my eyes for a few seconds. We’re stationary.
I relax, my head resting against the head support. I’ll have to stay patient, for home isn’t far.
And I focus on the sounds outside…
…Wait a minute!
This song! This music coming from somewhere? Not from my CD player – it’s switched off! So who’s playing it? Where? My eyes scan the landscape. This song, this so familiar song:
Les chansons de Prévertme reviennent
De tous les souffleurs de vers…laine*
Du vieux Ferréles cris la tempête
Boris Viança s’écrit à la trompette
Rive gauche à Paris
Adieu mon pays
My eardrums are buzzing. Am I back in France?
The song is coming from the car next mine!
There is no coincidence…
A bright yellow jeep pulls up next to me with the window open. The beautiful brown-haired young woman inside is smiling at me. My eyes open wide while my ears recognize a song by Alain Souchon, for they know it so well… But why here? Where am I? I wake up.
My awakening.
De musique et de poésie
Les marchands de malappris
Qui d’ailleurs ont déjà tout pris
Viennent vendre leurs habits en librairie
En librairie en librairie
And then words are coming from my mouth:
Are you listening to Alain Souchon? I’m French!
I’m talking to this girl. What a beautiful, charismatic smile she has …In her bright yellow jeep. The car next to mine. In the lane next to mine. In the huge traffic jam of La Jolla Village Drive.
Yes, I got this CD from my friend, she bought it in France. I listen to it all the time, I LOVE it!!!
Rive Gauche à Paris
Oh mon île Oh mon pays
De musique et de poésie
D’art et de liberté éprise
Nice tattoo on her harm, I tell myself: a cosmonaut emerging from a silver rocket.
We look at each other.
Alain Souchon is with us. With both of us. In Californian traffic jams, right before sunset.
It seems he came for me on La Jolla Village Drive, San Diego.
Thank you for visiting me, Alain…Thank you…
Rive gauche à Paris
Oh mon île Oh mon pays
De musique et de poésie
D’art et de liberté éprise
His voice is so soft, so sensual. So French…
My France.
A miracle.
I’m out of this Californian space-time.
[…]
– Thank you so much for the music, you made my day…
Nick
Rehearsal is over, and Nick arrives at Café 976, his guitar hung on his back. It’s May 2005. Nick is Kate’s boyfriend. Café 976 is at number 976, Felspar Street, right at the intersection of Cass and Felspar. It’s a haven in the heart of Pacific Beach, two blocks away from the ocean.
Nick goes to put his instrument backstage, the manager’s office upstairs, that is to say. Then, he comes back using the stairs outside, washes his hands, and voilà! Here he comes to the counter, ready to take orders!
*
I, myself, have just arrived in this wonderful place of refuge. I let myself be tempted by a Milky Way (espresso, chocolate, caramel, and milk), with a PB Native burrito (eggs, potatoes, green chili, and cream cheese, but leave out the Hot XXL sauce for me, please!). Here, nobody is scared of spicy food. Maybe it’s one of the few legacies of the Native Americans and their culture. Are the condiments of Californian gastronomy the only traces left by the true ancestors of this country?
*
The table in the sun next to us is free. Only a few birds are on it, pecking at the remains of a granola bowl. This is where my sister and I decide to sit. Hidden in the shade, further from usa little way off[PW1] , two people are sharing a large rectangular table. They are not talking to each other. They don’t even seem to know one another. Students, maybe? One of them, in her twenties, is focused on her white Mac computer screen and is going through some medical textbooks the size of phone books, taking notes on some small flashcards as she does so. She is focused… Is she a future doctor? Or a future nurse?
The other one, going on thirty, has a tattoo of a dragon and other extraordinary creatures covering his entire left arm. He is typing on his black Mac computer, on Photoshop.
*
The clients-turned-residents of Café 976 do all kinds of activities. Art and inspiration are at the core of the small little[PW2] place: we write, we type on our laptops (Wi-Fi is free after all), we discuss, we tan, and we read. The man with the surreal tattoos is eyeing his neighbor who just sat down, meters away. The new man must be in his fifties. He just laid a newspaper on the table, The Reader, and a book, right next to his coffee in a big cardboard cup. The man with the tattoos just saw the book:
‘Hi! Great book, isn’t it?’ he says with a smile
‘Hey! Yes… Sensational…’ the other replies, eyeing his screen and adding with a smile, ‘What are you working on? It looks fun!’
‘Yes, I am preparing an exhibition… My art will be displayed here in a few weeks, and also in a gallery in Hillcrest.’
He gives him his business card with a smile.
‘Here you go, check out my website!’
‘I will, for sure. That’s awesome!’
*
Spontaneous and always good-humored: what could be more Californian?
Hello California and its religion of the smile. Some French people I know would most likely say: “Such hypocrites…”
Furthermore, in France – to put it in a few words – our first reflexes would be to suspect, criticize, mock, envy… but here, in California, the first reflex is to love, admire, encourage, share. That’s how we create friendships. While observing the Americans’ behavior in Café 976, I understood why French people often depict them as hypocrites. An ethnocentric and cultural optical illusion.
Why do we need to think that the American smile hides fake sympathy or the worst sentiments? Maybe because we see their smiles with the perspective of what we put in ours…
So, is the French smile fundamentally fake ? Is it by nature intrinsically hypocritical?
It would explain why, from a French point of view, every positive American facial expression necessarily hides a negative thought under their smile. Oh, how malicious are we, us, French people… Maybe that’s where the stereotype comes from, this unfortunate stereotype (they all are unfortunate…) that the Americans unfairly have of us: “Sneaky French”! That’s bad karma coming back.
*
Here at Café 976, we make acquaintances, we talk with our neighbor, we introduce ourselves, we share our achievements in life thus far, the ups and downs, and the others listen with attention. No judgment, as they say. It’s not nice to be judgmental. Judgmental… huh, and what would be the French equivalent of this adjective? Am I mistaken or doesn’t it exist at all?
Here in California, we are not scared to speak with people we do not know, simply because fear is ridiculous. It is not in the national curriculum. So we are never scared to talk about what we are doing today or how we will achieve our dreams tomorrow. We are not afraid to ask a perfect stranger what they would do if they were in our shoes. We all have something to learn from others. The other is me.
Many professional partnerships and even friendships started with a simple exchange of business cards in Café 976!
With no shame, no complexes, no fear of imposture or “opportunism” – Is that how they say it in English? “L’opportunisme”… what is the English translation of this so often pejorative noun? Am I wrong or does it not exist? Here we talk about opportunity. There is nothing wrong with trying to seize it. Au contraire, here it is a healthy and unpretentious impulse[PW3] : “let’s take the opportunity!” And for proof, it was the Goddess Opportunity herself who created this country, and this state of California above all, through the famous Gold Rush in 1848…
*
I am in my favorite café with my sister. She has come to visit for two weeks. The French sisters once again reunited: a little bit of my France here in California! The French words come out at top speed, we do not articulate properly, and we speak loudly. We have the annoying tendency to think that no one else here understands French and therefore, we are allowed to comment on anything. So we allow ourselves to say out loud what we would otherwise keep to ourselves. And sometimes we add our very French critical sense.
This weather, I love it! I’d never get tired of it!
Have you seen her fur-lined shoes? At 35°C in the shade, is it an eccentric style or am I hallucinating?
I answer:
Hey! Isn’t he fine that guy over there? Look…
Jeez, haven’t you seen he’s got a wedding ring? And so young! 21 years old and already married? He couldn’t wait any longer to get laid so he ran to the jeweler’s… But I see where he’s coming from, though, I mean whatever it takes!
We turn in unison towards a table with 6 Californian women.
Well, today is diamond day! Look, they’ve all got one, the big diamond ring, the whole bunch of girlfriends. It’s who’s going to get the biggest…
Pff… a real competition…
Oh, we should stop bitching… We never know if any of them understands French.
Ha, I’d be surprised! Plus, we speak fast.
All the same, we should lose that habit.
What? Of speaking fast?
(Fit of the giggles for the two cynical French sisters that we are)
No. I was talking about criticizing people.
Bad karma…
Yeah, I can tell. We will have such bad karma for this.
*
As for me, I’d love to become a Californian self-made woman… And Nick adds:
“Yeah, it’s possible. You’re on the right track to becoming a California girl… Ninon, my French friend … But, if I can give you a piece of advice…: you need to stop judging people…”
How does he know…?