| The
Manny Diaries |
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Some things have never mixed well. The old standard of oil and water is obvious. Some say peanut butter and chocolate; to these naysayers, I merely turn downward my eyes in shame, for I can no longer gaze upon their naive selves after such heresy. Others point across the great Atlantic to that forger of cheeses and fine fashion, France, as the sticky, oily counterpart to the pure, life-giving liquid refreshment of America the beautiful. And they would be wrong. Julie, Francois, Max and Elliot are proof positive of that. I could delve into historical accounts of forgotten camaraderie, land/monument acquisition or the unmistakable coincidence of flag colors, but I have neither the wherewithal nor cotton-tipped fingers to write a textbook on the subject. What I do have is nine months of living under the roof of an American woman, a French man, and their well-mixed offspring of two young garcons. Forget about the fact that, yes, the boys must be shaken well before being poured out of their beds in the morning. Forget also their mother’s Russian origins and their French father. Salad dressings, they are not. Proof of this successful segue between such recently divided peoples can be found in and around that other dividing line: the mouth. When
I first met my family, they had what I thought at the time was tiny
and not so tiny specks of leftover raspberry jam around their lips.
I mentally applauded their selection of fruit spread, and gave it
not another thought until those same specks sprouted off my own,
decidedly jamless lips not one month later. Labial (Type I) Herpes
is exceedingly common, with nearly 70 percent of the population
being affected by this chronic nuisance. They must have passed on
this slightly burning sensation during one of the many times they
slobbered on the serving spoon before relocating it back into the
pot of pommes de terres, or during a clandestine sipping of my cherished
Vittel water bottle. If only Bush would sneak a sip of Chirac’s
glass of Bordeaux and contract this viral lip disease, he would
see that we are all human, susceptible to the same self-doubts,
infallibilities and mutated strains of bacteria. Perhaps they would
hug and joke about this new “red scare” as they cordially
debate the advantages of taking magnesium supplements. But I digress. When they aren’t verbally assaulting me, they might be verbally confusing me. While I put away the green, chipped clay plates from Spain, they asked me a riddle they had heard at school involving Jacque Chirac, the particulars of which I now regrettably forget. “Do you give your tongue to the cat?” Elliot asked me as I pondered an answer. This only served to further my confusion. Idioms often lose much in the translation between languages; if you ever find yourself among a French-speaking crowd in the midst of a guessing game, say “Donnez-vous ta langue au chat?” To say “Give up?” with such international flair will surely prove you as a true (wo)man of the globe. The mixing of cultures seen in my temporary overseas home over the past year extends beyond dialogue. Francois, a 37-year-old general surgeon with a propensity for calamari and sleeping fully clothed on their daybed until the middle of the night, likes also to keep in touch with the youth culture. He rented what he called “8 Miles” to see this new white rap phenomenon that all the kids loved. “This ‘heep-hop’ thing eez really in-teresting,” he told me after watching our native Michigander drop rhythm bombs on unsuspecting combatants. Although he doesn’t much like the music, he acknowledges Eminem’s creativity, an admiration which might stem from his own language’s creative invention of phrases involving tongues and domesticated animals. An unfortunate consequence of his viewing experience was when the two boys hopped in his lap to watch one of the final rap-battle scenes. They’ve been dropping their pants and exposing their derrieres to the household ever since. In a time of such global strife and international unbalance, I find it comforting that at least one family can find a shared bond between the USA and France. There is no speak of “freedom” foods, and the American-style sliced loaf we buy is not re-labeled “Deaf to the World Democracy-Slingers’ Bread.” It might be fragile, but a harmony has been found. And the knowledge of that harmony will be the most enduring souvenir I bring back with me from across the Atlantic. That and the chronic lip virus. A2P Email
Jonathan Irwin at manny@annarborpaper.com. |
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