Living the good life, and enjoying every second.
“Eric, ne dis pas stuff!” (Eric, don’t say « stuff » !)
Those were the words coming from the kitchen as we teenagers darted downstairs and into the basement of a typical alpine home in southeastern France.
“Oui maman,” said Eric with respectful obedience, before returning to speak with us in his not-quite perfect American slang.
His mother was sharp, and even if her command of English was nothing close to that of her son’s, she could tell when he was overusing catchall terms that obviated his requirement to chercher le bon mot en anglais.
I have not thought about this five-second exchange in over twenty years, and indeed this is probably because I have not been back to this little town of three thousand people during this exact space of time.
Bernin, a commune nestled at the base of the Chartreuse mountains with the majestic Belledonne range glowering down over it all, was just about the most perfect place that a person could find herself at sixteen years old. And there I was—lucky enough to be taking it all in amongst boundlessly generous people who welcomed me in to their homes and asked for nothing in return.
We were six teenagers—sometimes more, sometimes less—but at our core, there were six of us foreign exchange students who ran in similar circles during that year in Grenoble. Most of us had French host families of varying idiosyncrasies (which is nothing to say about our own psychoses), and from the very beginning it was obvious who had the “better” host families who were charged with feeding and frenchifying our Yankee inclinations. This house in Bernin, it belonged to just about the best family in the Gresivaudan valley.
“Au bout de chaque rue, une montagne”
That all took place back in the early nineties—just before OJ Simpson took a televised car ride on the Los Angeles Freeway, and light years before things like 9/11 and a mutating world order would take hold of our consciences. It was an amazing year- one that I could spend hours reminiscing over, given the correct audience and dosage of Chartreuse verte in my glass.
When I explain my year abroad in these terms, it seems like such a long time ago. But when a small trace of this world comes sneaking up on my modern day existence, everything seems as fresh as the day I finally came back to America.
* * *
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Françoise is really sick.”
This was the text that came into my phone on a quiet Saturday afternoon three days ago.
Quickly, I fumbled for the dial button. It wasn’t ten seconds before I was waist deep in the intimate conversation that you can undertake with certain friends who you only find the time to converse with once or twice a year. No pleasantries are ever required—no feigning interest in one another’s immediate preoccupations—only speaking of the truly important thing that is going on right now.
I hate that I’m writing this, because today is three days since we had this conversation, and it is the birthday of that same friend who texted me over the weekend. It is also the day that Françoise has succumbed to the brain tumor she fought for two years.
Not in French, not in English—there are no words to properly articulate how this news makes me feel.
If you’re reading this, I am pretty certain that you don’t know Françoise, or the good citizens of Bernin. You also don’t know the kids who studied abroad as carefree teenagers during that year. I’m not quiet sure that you should care, either. But I still feel the need to write about these people, because all of them mean so much to me.
Living the good life, chez Romagna
Even through the separation of so many years, I can assure you that the passing of this maman is leaving an unpatchable hole in the hearts of every person she welcomed into her world. It sounds almost too commonplace to say, but Françoise truly was a wonderful lady. Her passing makes me think about the people who float in and out of your life, and even if it’s only for the shortest of periods, this intersection leaves you a bit better than before the two of you met. These are the crucial folks that help to keep you sur le bon chemin.
I was lucky to know this woman.
To say that I’m sad about this unexpected passing is not exactly appropriate. Of course I am sad—but as a friend of mine who recently lost her mom once said, I am also so proud and grateful to have known this woman. It’s a great day to celebrate good people, and to carry forward the love that they so effortlessly spread as they got to live a few quality decades traversing a modest corner of the Rhône-Alpes.