B.L.O.G.

The old Gendarmerie in Montauban It was a dark and stormy night… Quit that and get to the story...  A long, very long time ago when I was a young, very young woman, my sisters and I used to spend our summers in Southern France doing what we did best in those days, party.  In the summer, most French villages down south have block parties.  Their block parties consisted of the entire village participating.  Sometimes, they managed to get some famous singers to perform.  Between block parties, discotheques, getting up late in the morning, sunbathing in the afternoon, we had a great life; a shallow life one would say, but we were young.  We had an apartment in one of those converted townhouses, with only one main entrance.  The old man living in the apartment facing us didn’t like us at all.  Actually, he didn’t like Asians, and he didn’t like noisy girls.  We came home late, and according to him, we were not nice.  One night he decided...

Indian Camp??? In Normandie??? There is a term in Madagascar for French born in Madagascar, “Zanatan.” There was also a term for French born in Laos, but the term is not as appealing. In Laos, they were called Falang Khi Nok  “Bird Poop.” I will refer to myself as Zanatan (sounds exotic) , instead of Bird Poop. Although I have no idea what Zanatan really means, and I will stay ignorant. (Actually, Barnett checked, Zanatan means "Child of the country.) Being born French, Lao and Vietnamese in the midst of colonial French in Southeast Asia was not easy. You, (as you in a general sense of you) , are raised to be French; and then you are expected to be Asian, especially the girls. You are supposed to be dealing with life as an Asian, i.e. being sheltered, educated and married to someone possibly rich, with a position. You can marry white men if they are educated French, but no Americans. And then you would restart the cycle with the next generation. Boy, did I mess up or ...

For years now, I keep on saying that I am a potted plant because I have been wandering around the world since the age of five. I have no roots, I have never had a steady place to call my own, and now I do not want to own one. My base is myself, and I am content. It has come to a point that moving is not only part of my life, but it is my life; a life instilled into my body and soul so deep that not moving is not an option. I tried hard to stay put, to stay in one place; and I realized that I am not happy that way. My spirit is gloomy, and my soul has difficulty enduring the confinement of staying put. I believe that I am more of a poppy than a potted plant. I adapt easily to my environment, wherever that happens to be.  Poppies come in different colors, they are resilient. Each generates a distinct aroma. Poppies grow everywhere, From the mountains of Himalaya To the plains of California. They grow in Iceland And they travel to Thailand. They can be found in Spain, And the...

While travelling from the SIDI Apartments, where I live, to and from the NEC (New Embassy Compound), I spend time thinking of things to include in our blog. Somehow that has brought me back to a further language discussion. I guess it is because language is such an adventure, at least for me. Three people taught me to love language (not necessarily English in one case): Will Shakespeare; Will Safire; and I forget Goscinny’s first name. I apologize for that. Each one of those men taught me to read “for real.” [Digression: I’m a little frustrated right now. I have come to the conclusion that I edit better than I write; which means that I have to get a lot on paper, and then pull it apart as I review what I said in the first place. “Said” is the right term to use here. I talk to myself in the car, which may, at times, amuse Marco, Solofo, Henri, or one of the others driving me from place to place. I really have to get one of those software systems allowing me to talk to the ma...

Climbing trees is still a lot of fun, picking cherries  for pies from the tree is even better; and trying not to put every one of them in my stomach first is hard.

A typical day at the farm. I usually wake up early. Open my emails, but of course what else? Then coffee and start cleaning around the farm. Mostly picking up garbage and loading it in the car for the dump, nothing exciting. Today was a little more exciting. I cut down a tree. The most horrible tree I have ever seen. Ugly; and the flowers are so tiny they attract dust, and they fly all over, and land on the furniture.