Post by Admin on Apr 18th, 2004 at 9:21am
The chestnuts are [finally] in blossom in Paris, after a slow, cool spring. Just as the weather turns nice, we are boarding a plane for the US -- the "old country" as my grandmother used to call the land of her birth.
Her old country, Poland, conjured up ideas of short people in aprons with horses and wagons. My old country, the US, is different -- it is the place I go to visit family and find work. It hearkens pictures of athletic shoes and great big cars. My grandmother never went back to her old country.
We have American and French friends who have found other "new countries". A friend from New York moved to Beijing. The nephew of a French friend has left to study medicine there. Another friend now lives in Moscow.
It is with mixed feelings I visit the US. My friends here give me a hard time about going back. Just packing my bag for the trip puts me at odds -- I never think two weeks ahead; what I wear there and wear here are different. The best thing about going back is that everything is easier for me in English. I could sell the Brooklyn Bridge.
Soft brown honeybees were flying all over town this week. They were making sweet work of the cherry blossoms. I could see them in the steeply slanting light at the end of the day, finishing up a few more flowers before flying back to the hive.
I sometimes envy the bees, knowing just what to do each day of their life. They never question whether they are the drone or the queen. Does a bee decide he will goof off today, drinking beer at the cafe, or spending an hour in the window of the pastry shop? There is one of Dante's hells to pay when he arrives back home. We just don't hear about it. Scientists throw out data like that.
I am sure my butterflies will hatch from their cocoons as soon as we are airborne, above the English Channel. A friend of ours sells surveillance cameras, and we tried to persuade him to keep an eye on our pets. The camera reports back to any computer, and has a zoom, so we could see each unfolding wing.
This was good week for painting outdoors and Blair painted this week's cherry blossoms, to the tune of the humming bees.
We went to the Andre Jacquemart museum to see a Botticelli Nativity. The guard at the museum was wonderfully chatty -- he provided us with a magnifying glass to inspect some marquetry. He explained how the "golden hand" in a marble bas relief was the hand of God, swatting fleas to protect the workers in the field from the plague. He kept a close watch on my hands as I translated his words to two young friends.
The chess players are out in the park, along with the chestnut blossoms and the bees. The chess boards are the great equalizer: young and old, men and women, Jew and Arab, American and Russian all start out the game alike. Little clocks tick away as each man makes his move. Hands move so quickly that sometimes I can't see just what is happening.
Laurie (text) and Blair (painting) PESSEMER
Her old country, Poland, conjured up ideas of short people in aprons with horses and wagons. My old country, the US, is different -- it is the place I go to visit family and find work. It hearkens pictures of athletic shoes and great big cars. My grandmother never went back to her old country.
We have American and French friends who have found other "new countries". A friend from New York moved to Beijing. The nephew of a French friend has left to study medicine there. Another friend now lives in Moscow.
It is with mixed feelings I visit the US. My friends here give me a hard time about going back. Just packing my bag for the trip puts me at odds -- I never think two weeks ahead; what I wear there and wear here are different. The best thing about going back is that everything is easier for me in English. I could sell the Brooklyn Bridge.
Soft brown honeybees were flying all over town this week. They were making sweet work of the cherry blossoms. I could see them in the steeply slanting light at the end of the day, finishing up a few more flowers before flying back to the hive.
I sometimes envy the bees, knowing just what to do each day of their life. They never question whether they are the drone or the queen. Does a bee decide he will goof off today, drinking beer at the cafe, or spending an hour in the window of the pastry shop? There is one of Dante's hells to pay when he arrives back home. We just don't hear about it. Scientists throw out data like that.
I am sure my butterflies will hatch from their cocoons as soon as we are airborne, above the English Channel. A friend of ours sells surveillance cameras, and we tried to persuade him to keep an eye on our pets. The camera reports back to any computer, and has a zoom, so we could see each unfolding wing.
This was good week for painting outdoors and Blair painted this week's cherry blossoms, to the tune of the humming bees.
We went to the Andre Jacquemart museum to see a Botticelli Nativity. The guard at the museum was wonderfully chatty -- he provided us with a magnifying glass to inspect some marquetry. He explained how the "golden hand" in a marble bas relief was the hand of God, swatting fleas to protect the workers in the field from the plague. He kept a close watch on my hands as I translated his words to two young friends.
The chess players are out in the park, along with the chestnut blossoms and the bees. The chess boards are the great equalizer: young and old, men and women, Jew and Arab, American and Russian all start out the game alike. Little clocks tick away as each man makes his move. Hands move so quickly that sometimes I can't see just what is happening.
Laurie (text) and Blair (painting) PESSEMER