A very happy and joyous New Year to all!

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A night in a French Gendarmerie’s Prison Cell!

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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...
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My love affair with the African continent...

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What do you do when you are married to a Foreign Service officer? You travel around the world. And if you are with USAID? You travel around Nations of Rising Expectations. Sure we have posts in Rome and Paris, but my husband does not get sent to those places. Except for one time he was sent to Paris for two weeks to evaluate the one and only house owned by USAID in Paris, near the Place Concorde, in a cul-de-sac; otherwise inhabited by Arab Sheiks and Princes all having more money that USAID can count. We were in Afghanistan when Barnett told me that our next assignment was going to be Mauritania. “Mauri-what?,” I said. To simplify the matter, he showed it to me on a map. Since then, we had a globe, and he would point out our next assignment each time. As an Asian/French teenager, you know about Africa because you studied geography. Even then, it was not the best subject while I was in school. I landed in Senegal in 1978, I looked around, and except for the fact that there ...
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Back to my “roots” (French born overseas…), and an all American gal…

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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 ...
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