Christmas in so many ways

The season has taken over my head, my heart, my space. It's been a time of decorating the house, bringing Christmas into our visual world. It's been a time of baking and contemplating. But also a time of learning, exchanging querying.

I haven't spent many Christmases in France. Once early on in my marriage, once when Jonas was born (early December), two years' ago shortly after the divorce, and this year. I'm not quite practiced at the act you might say. I don't have my bearings, I'm not an experienced adept. And yet, having lived here for 15 years, few in my circle 'get' that.

So, amidst the joys of the school Christmas market and the marvelous village of gingerbread (aka pain d'épice) in Jonas' class, the presentation of the Jeux de Noel by the teachers in school, the stars folded and created by Jonas and brought home to adorn my windows, the Christmas fairs lit up and delightful in every city, the lights hanging over the roads... I've absorbed some of what happens here.


In my own home I blend traditions -- I've my tree with my collection of ornaments acquired over a lifetime, and my Provençale crêche acquired from my years of touring to the village of Séguret where my favorite santonnier lives. I put candles around the room (the kitchen) and made an advent calendar with a little help from Cultura -- our cultural book/cd/art supply store chain. I made my raspberry chocolate bûche (see the recipe in my blog from exactly this time last year) - an item 'de rigueur' for my children and myself now. I tried to hang stockings by the fire -- I wanted to -- but they didn't arrive in time from NY (they'd been stored at Mom's). I do hope the Post Office hasn't lost them!

This was a year of both joy and melancholy. It is peculiar being a single mom in a country which is almost but not quite yours. I thought I might spend Christmas with the new beau, but in fact, that didn't work out, for many reasons, amongst them a French tradition that deems Christmas an intimate family affair. We'd been seeing each other gently this fall, but there's no declaration of more for the moment, and it is simply not appropriate, done, approved, of blending families for such an event. Ah well.

And so I looked to girl friends. I didn't quite feel up to spending Christmas alone. This being Erick's year, I was able to keep the boys for Christmas Eve, but then passed them to him for this week. And, I realized that here too, this is an intimate family event. And, my status and confusion being a last minute thing... it was a bit of an imposition to bring it up.

However, life is evolution, shifting, gifts, change. My dear friend P had spent Christmas alone last year -- like myself, a divorced mom who gets the kids one year in two. And she open her house, her kitchen, her couch and her family to me and mine. We were invited into the bosom of her world to share Christmas Eve with her and her boys, her new beau and his son and their respective parents. I brought my bûche, my squash recipe (which I'll tack onto the end of this post), my bread and home-made granola, plus some sparkling wine from Domaine D'Eole in Eygalières, one of the organic wineries I've worked with and visited for years.


The boys piled into the boys' room with our extra mattresses and sleeping bags (5 altogether!) and I settled happily onto the couch in the living room, and Filou (yes he was included) slept on the floor by the couch on a nice rag rug (the house cat fled to another room during this time).

We ate, drank, sang a bit, lit candles on the tree and opened presents all on Christmas Eve. The boys played together beautifully and truly enjoyed this different Christmas. We've decided that P and her boys are our cousins in Provence. She is like a sister, close, affectionate, but also honest with me. She is a teacher, a mentor, and a fellow traveler in this life that is not quite like we expected it to be when we were young.

I dropped the boys off with Erick on the 25th, went home for a bath, to check in, and then returned to the warmth of P's home to spend one more night. It just felt lovely to be 'part of' to be included. And, well, she did a splendid job of bringing Christmas to her home.

After all this, what did I truly miss? 24 hour radio stations with Christmas carols, singing in the church with Ma, and a snow storm. Provence is probably the only place this past few weeks that hasn't had snow!

Tian de Potimaron (Baked Squash)


The Squash, the pumpkin, and all its varieties is of course, and import from the new world. But, we have at least 200 years of enjoying this hearty fall vegetable in Provence. The most popular preparations are either in soup/potage or as a gratin or tian. In Provence there are now many different squash available on the market. The most abundant is the Potiron which most resembles a pumpkin, but has a slightly more watery flesh. This grows to quite large proportions and the vegetable sellers sell it by the kilo, in large slices. More rare, but much more flavorful with a meatier flesh is the Potimaron. It can be either orange or green skinned, and is 6-10 inches in diameter, and quite dense, thus heavy in your shopping basket.

Ingredients:

- 1/2 cup olive oil
- 3 slices of bacon cut in 1/4 inch (1cm) short strips
- 2 onions minced
- One 1 1/2 kilo (3 pound) squash peeled, sliced and cut into 3/4 inch (4 cm) cubes
- 2 bay leaves
- 2 garlic cloves crushed and minced
- a couple grates of nutmeg
- salt and pepper as needed
- 3 tablespoons of honey (you can use a strongly flavored honey like chestnut, or garrigues, or a more mild, depending on availability and your preference).

In a large deep frying pan, pour in enough olive oil to cover the bottom, reserving the rest for later. Turn your flame up to medium high, and add the bacon bits and onions. Sautee till the onions are sweated and the bacon cooked. Add the squash and the remaining oil, and sautee over a medium flame, allowing them to lightly brown, for 10-15 minutes. They should start to become tender.

Now remove the squash from the flame, fold in the bay leaves, the minced garlic, and nutmeg. Salt and pepper to taste. Transfer to a baking dish/tian/gratin dish and place in the oven at 400F or 200C. Let bake for 30 minutes, or till tender. When just about done, drizzle the honey over the top, return to the oven and bake for another 10 minutes or till the honey caramelizes.

Self motivation in a young 'Arabe'

It doesn't take long, once you've arrived and truly begun living in this country, to sense the deep crevice that separates the French French from the immigrant population, majoritarily from North Africa, i.e. the 'Arabes'.

Most slurs, most annoyances, most grievances, most fear towards young people, most accusations for violent crime, fall upon the heads of the young male Arabic population.

Yes, there are sufficient incidents to prove a basis for this belief, though their grievances and reasons for acting out, burning cars, etc., are as numerous, if not more so. There are also as many other individuals who are trying tremendously hard to adapt to French culture, work in school, get ahead, be honest, strive to succeed in this country their parents chose to move to.

However, France is a country lacking in civil rights laws. Americans have these, by necessity and by belief. It is still a fact that people will hire more easily new employees who resemble them, with whom they feel at ease, etc., and thus whether you call it nepotism or simply the freedom to choose, it ends up with a slant towards hiring young white men and women from 'good' backgrounds. Particularly in a country where firing people after a short trial period is quite difficult.

I bring this sensitive topic up as I went to get my IPhone fixed the other day. The screen was smashed and I hoped to be able to replace simply the screen, and not the phone. Orange, who provided me with my phone, would take it from me and charge me a bundle, but that was not my preferred solution, particularly as I do not want to be separated from my phone, nor did I want to pay a hefty bundle.

A friend mentioned an Arab run phone/internet/etc., shop in Avignon. I found it (pretty easy to do) and discovered that the individual who repairs the phones is actually in Le Pontet. They gave me his number, I arranged to go by the next morning and thus get my phone fixed on-site while I waited, rather than leave it over night.

After scoping about a bit -- the shop is not in the easiest to spot place, and only young Arabs have any idea where it is, which I discovered after asking at a magazine store, and the Post Office. I found one such young Arab, the server of a little cafe filled with Arab men, and asked him where I might find Salin to fix my phone. He gave me good directions, told me that the shop has a name - Deblock Phone - and I went on my way.

I was graciously received, my problem solved, and a pleasant half an hour was spent in the presence of a very young man, Salin, who shared his story as a Parisian who upon graduating from high school sought out internships, etc., and was refused point blank at each stop. He had put together his resume/CV as suggested by his guidance counselor, he had been well-dressed, excessively polite, but no go. He became disgusted with the system, and decided to take the situation into his own hands. He is now the main person in our large area (including many villages, and local cities) who repairs a bit of everything, computers included, but most particularly cell phones.

A good situation evolved out of pain and rejection. He is very bright and skilled and thus could create a niche for himself. But, the chip on the shoulder remains. He's successful now, and can hire others to work with him, lease out his talents, etc., And yes, there are others like him who run the internet cafes, long distance phone card sellers, etc., They are working hard, creating businesses that everyone needs, and getting ahead. But, they still feel dismissed by the powers that be.

It's not easy living amidst racism, judgment by your origins, etc., I can see that the demographics are changing, that these young men and women are striking out on their own, adapting to the real conditions of this country and in so doing, learning to their chagrin and pain that the system set up for white French people doesn't always apply to them. I wonder for how much longer we'll hold to these rigid formulas of entering the working world when they only work for a portion of the population?

School - internships - first job(s) - hired for life.

Whether we wish it or no, things will change. Keep watching and reading.

My Birthday

Okay, today was my birthday. It began quite well. An sms from a dear friend. Beautiful dry and sunny, with a touch of breeze weather. Lovely visits before me, a serene and interesting book to listen to on my iphone...

So off I went to Arles to collect the clients, and then off to the goat cheese maker (Claudine, who is my other goat cheese maker, and a friend as well of long date). She and I shared tales of our recent singledom, and promised an evening together soon to truly catch up.

Then onto the baker -- who was busy making a pièce montée, and many another task on this day of the Ascension.



And then to St.Remy de Provence and a lovely lunch at Taberna Romana, my favorite Roman restaurant nestled in a Roman monument, Glanum. The weather kept on shining upon us. Ahhhh. While my clients took a look at Van Gogh's little room in the St. Paul de Mausolée psychiatric asylum, I took in the lovely weather and stayed with Filou outdoors.

Then down into town and a visit to the chocolatier's. Not only is he newly married for a second time, but apparently he's also papa for a fourth time. Goodness, I was not up on the news! So his shop-girl filled me in as we tasted any and all the chocolates we wanted (well almost). It's rather a lovely thing to be a favorite of your chocolatier and his staff...

We wandered the quaint streets, looked at galleries, coveted and purchased (I the former, the clients the latter) sun hats and paintings... And then, and then, and then...


Back to the car and a very flat tire. Uh oh. I dropped the clients off at the Essential oils' shop and museum, Florame, and went in search of a garage. But whoops. It's a national holiday. Yikes. And, the rain started to pour, and pour and pour. And Erick had a cooking class in Arles, and no one else was findable on the cell phone. I got through to my friend at the olive oil mill but he was busy with clients and alone in the shop. What to do? Yikes! Even handy old Gilbert was out of commission (that's what a new girlfriend can do I suppose).

I drove very slowly back up to the parking lot by the tourist office and got out of the car, and started looking for where a spare tire might be (in the rain). I found a spare umbrella in the glove compartment... but it took a minute to think of looking under the driver's seat for the various necessary tools. Erick thought the spare might be beneath the car. Hmmmm What to do?

And then, in desperation, I went over to the retired Moroccan men sitting out of the rain, their game of boule/pétanque canceled by the weather. And I asked, I implored, I made myself out to be quite the pathetic and ignorant female with no one to help her. It took a moment, but then two of them got up to help me.


We investigated the situation, started unscrewing bolts, realized that my tool for such was stripped. Took a pause while one went to get his car and his tool box, and then continued.


It was a pure moment of Blanche Du Bois. I was a woman in need, and they were competent, patient, and willing. The universe sent me angels in the form of gentle retired immigrants. They spent an hour in the rain getting the spare tire out, raising the vehicle, removing the old tire, changing it all.. While I documented the moment, and Filou rested in the car.




My brief (relatively) moment of stress and WTHell am I going to do? turned into a moment of grace. The clients were gracious and lovely as well. Then, a bit late, I drove them back to Arles, and me to Avignon where a grand bouquet of flowers awaited me. From? At which point, I hopped into a hot bath. Voila, a birthday almost passed. It has been rather affirming of the goodness of this world, I must say.


Oh, and Mother Nature offered me a perfect strawberry -- the first ripe one from my patch. Gorgeous! Succulent! Flavorful!

Why Choose France?

Beyond the food and wine and the weather... why choose France? What is the lure of this European country that so stands apart from others? Why have I and so many visited and then settled here. Why have French ex-pats living in the new world returned?

A dear friend came to dinner the other day and expressed quite eloquently why she chose to return to the country of her birth. She had been living in comfort in Australia, enjoying the great weather, the super friendly people, the beach a hop away, tennis daily... She'd built a business there, had an income... but when the choice needed to be made she returned to France.

Like myself, the education of her children, both social and academic, is too important to be left to chance or to others. For the time that they are her responsibility, it is a main factor in where and how she lives.

And so as we and friends were conversing around the fire, a lovely glass of wine in hand, nibblies on the table between us, she let drop into conversation the following lines:

Je tiens à une culture du débat; à une culture de l'intellecte; à une culture d'exigeance.

She returned to France to secure for her children the education, both social and academic, that she felt would best prepare them to live their lives -- wherever they may choose to live in the future. And here, in France, they would be encouraged to express themselves, to argue, to debate, to have opinions. They would be in a world that demands that they push themselves academically to succeed, to not settle for alright or okay.

As a child of academically advanced parents, living just outside New York, I was certainly pushed in my studies, encouraged and driven. So this is a value that I carry in me from my own culture and family and I do my best to convey it to my offspring. However, the culture of debate, of discussion, of arriving at your opinions through heated arguments... this is something I have cultivated since I arrived on French soil. I do believe I was more willing to be bland when I was younger. Certainly I was politically apathetic and rather horrifyingly ignorant. "I don't know" and "whatever" were more common to my vocabulary than "I believe" and "I insist."

Upon my arrival in France it was soon quite clear that the French are aware of and informed about American politics. They have opinions and express them. And if before them I was less knowledgeable than they about my own country and its recent history... Well, suffice to say that I am proud enough to inform myself and remedy my ignorance when faced with such a situation. And so, I read, I learn, I think, I care and I express myself.

Would I have done so to the same extent had I stayed in the US? I just don't know. To a certain extent no doubt. The US has lived through very interesting times (to quote Chuang tzu if I'm not mistaken) in the past two decades. I can't deny being a person who cares and who reads the NYTimes since high school. However, it wasn't till I lived in France that I jumped from the Arts and Leisure section to the Opinions and Editorials...

That France and the French in general prize the intellect. Yes, I appreciate this. The most daily evidence of this social value is the art of conversation. Witty, sensitive, attuned to others, liberally sprinkled with references to politics, literature, cinema, history, song, public radio debates...

Still in operation here is the carefully designed table and social get-together. When invited to my friend's wedding years ago, we were just two amongst over a hundred, but it was clear that the table placements had been carefully thought through and we were with individuals we had much in common with, and with whom we were able to enjoy a marvelous evening of varied subjects.

The conversation is a living entity to be enlivened, encouraged, spread throughout the table. Monologues are discouraged. Sensivity to your neighbor is prized, but the forcefully expressed opinions of one who's drunk a bit much are not undesirable.

As I often told my French language students: the French will not ask you personal questions, however, they do love discussing sex, religion and politics. These being traditionally taboo at the WASP tables of my youth, I find this unceasingly entertaining when I am proven to have spoken truly again and again and again. Unfailingly, one of these directions (or all three) will be the chosen spark for a dinner table discussion. These do have the virtue of not excluding others, as in general, we do all have opinions on them that could be expressed. (A tête à tête is another matter). You can thus understand perhaps, why we sit from 8pm till Midnight over the many courses, wines, and coffee, perhaps topped off with a cognac. When pursuing subjects of this nature, a simple hour just isn't enough.

And so, we are back to why one would choose to live in France. It all converges at the dinner table. And, if we follow that thought to its natural extension, there's sense in the family dinner sans TV, with multiple courses, shared by all. But I do believe I've already gone into this... No?

Ah, those Manifestations!

Sorry for the quality of the photos -- I only had my cell phone with me, so, they are what they are. But perhaps Nathalie at Avignon in Photos will have some better shots soon. (see my list of blogs to the right).

Les Jeunes Agriculteurs are angry, scared, and desperate! And so, let us dump carrots, beets, grape must and more all over the main roads around Avignon. And let us block the two bridges coming into and exiting Avignon, and let us do this during rush hour on a Friday night! And we will... what? Wreak havoc and put poor women like myself (and thousands upon thousands of other people) in a car for four and a half hours covering no more than 40 km? In the vain attempt to go from home to school (normally 15 minutes -- I left at 3:45 and arrived at 4:30), from school to the train station (I've two kids to put on the train on Friday evening, remember?) to which we arrived at 6:15 -- a full hour and and fifteen minutes after the departure of Gaetan's train. From which we then zoomed through town (amazing) to my bridge, which we were dissuaded to attempt crossing by the friendly policemen as it was blocked by trucks and more. At which point I then headed south to another bridge across the Rhône, -- it took another hour to get out of Avignon. And we arrived home at the tender hour of 8pm. And to think, I thought I'd be able to have a nice shower quietly by myself at 5pm and prepare for the weekend ... silly me.


Arghghghgh. OK, life is pretty rough for anyone who's farming. Here, as in the US, if you try to sell in bulk to the major buyers, you are offered less than it cost you to produce your wares. So, there is a system of primes which pay farmers for what their farms used to produce at rates that were set a few years back. And, these primes don't change, as the farmer is encouraged to produce less. To the point at which these primes have no longer any connection to production. They are designed to keep farmers afloat while maintaining the sanctity of a buyers' market that refuses to pay decent rates for produce farmed locally.


Now, if you go organic, and you sell directly to the consumer as much as possible (through the markets, monthly crates, etc.,) you're far better off. Nevertheless, it is still a difficult life, and yet one which would like to choose.

Another barrier to setting up keep as a farmer is acquiring the land to do so -- good farming land is more often sold at high rates to developpers than at affordable rates to farmers. Haven't we heard that somewhere before? It is the same world-round I believe, be in the Ohio River Valley or ...


However, rarely in the US do farmers have the chutzpah to gather together and block a major city for an entire afternoon. So, cultural moment for all: my kids, myself ... and a time to hear tales of Gaetan's father's dumping goat manure in a local McDonalds way back when. I laughed with my boys in the car, stretched my legs when possible, took stock of the apples, carrots and various mashed and rotten fruit on the street, rolled through puddles of car-crushed refuse, eyed the many riot police hanging out on street corners, and when possible, made a brief stop for cookies and iced tea and other yummies to tide over the empty stomachs of my boys during the last stretch home. All's well that ends well. But aieeeee, I would have preferred to have Spain or the Alps or Italy at the end of my 4 1/2 hour drive! Not moving, barely inching along for hours at end is not fun, no matter that I maintained an optimistic outlook and the kids sang along to FUN radio.


Now myself, I was more in the mood for "Do you remember..." the strikes of the winter of 95? Do you remember walking or biking or roller blading or hitch-hiking all over Paris? in the cold winds of winter? (my legs have never since been as lovely...) Do you remember, missing your plane due to trucks blocking the highway exits? But be reassured, when this happens, the tickets are changed no questions asked. Ah yes, free speach and the right to demonstrate. T'is wonderful non?

Why don't the French go pippi as often as we do?

OK, this is yet again a rather odd subject. But one of the more remarkable chapters of Polly Platt's book, French or Foe, which has become a reference for Anglo-saxons visiting and working in France, covers toilet usage in a French house. She puts forth that it is considered rude to need to use a bathroom when you visit your French hosts. And that, in many cases, this is the last room of the house to be cleaned (I've found this true in but one instance, and my poor friend was overwhelmed with two small children and all that entails). In general, the French do not use the toilet when visiting. Hmmm.

More than one American friend has informally tested this hypothesis. Truly, if you invite French friends to a meal, will they use or not the house toilet? In most cases (particularly a first visit), no. They can come at noon, eat, drink and converse till 5 in the afternoon and go home without ever needing to climb the stairs or search out that tiny room in the back. How do they do it?

As the wife of a Frenchman for over ten years, I did notice that Erick had a tendency to stop by the side of the road, commune with a tree, and then get back into the car, oftentimes just ten minutes before we arrived at our destination. So, he seemed to take care of his bodily needs elsewhere than at the host's home. Aha..

Certainly, one of the points Polly Platt wanted to make is that it is considered rude to walk into your host's home and ask immediately for the washing up room. T'is true, this is just not done -- or at the very least you excuse yourself as you request directions to this most private of rooms.

In my years of touring mostly Americans (with a sprinkle of many other cultures mixed in), I did have to scout out wc possibilities at each and every destination. In the early years, before we really had our act together, we made the mistake of stopping at a village bar (yikes! it's a hole in the floor!!). Or, God forbid, we even offered toilet paper and motioned to a tree... (this latter I must stress was only during hikes).

There is a basic physiological fact that if you consume three to four large cups of coffee, a glass of orange juice, and a copious breakfast, you will need to evacuate some of that an hour or so later. The French (and Italians) drink one small cup of espresso, no more. They do not touch milk (considered a poison when mixed with coffee), and only occasionally fruit juice at breakfast. And, they're generally content with a small piece of bread and jam.

Hence, clear and obvious reasons for my needing to have a toilet at the ready when my group arrived at its destination. And yes, this did startle my French partners. Before we could start wine-tasting, or looking at pottery, or hiking, half the group disappeared. Once, when setting out for our sea-side hike, the restaurant we patronize had yet to open, and I was driven to seek out a local fisherman who then asked his mother-in-law if she would open her house to us. Five persons then trooped one by one through her bathroom. It was a most interesting meeting of cultures...

Is there a moral to this story? Not particularly. Now that I live here and the majority of my friends are French, I don't notice things one way or another, and certainly we all have our days when the digestive system is a bit awry. However, I would say, when you're first invited to a Frenchman's house, for a party, tea, dinner, coffee, what-have-you, if you can manage to not need the facilities during your visit, or at the very least not till the end of your visit, you're better off. You can always see it as a slight skip in the act of being received. The host has been waiting for you, you arrive, and she/he is ready to take charge and entertain, but then you disappear into the wc. What is the host to do but wait? It is a rather awkward moment. You're there, but you're not...

Gene Kelly and Dancing Shoes

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel

Men dance in France. Oh but what a lovely thing. They truly enjoy it, and seem to have rhythm, a sense of their bodies and a proud pleasure in swinging around the women in their lives. Nearly every Frenchman of a certain age (35 and over -- well up to 60-65 if not older) dances "le rock," the swinging couple's dance that is somewhere between disco and bebop. It goes well to Rock Around the Clock and some classic 50s songs. But, the creative soul can manage it to nearly anything.

In the States, at least where I grew up, we practiced non-touching dancing, each in his own corner, facing each other, or maybe not (excepting some disco). This style of dance permitted girlfriends to dance together as the dancing hetero-sexual white male had become a rare creature. All through high school, and most of college, I danced with my girlfriends, bopping, swinging, turning. Only the rare guy joined us, and then few could go beyond a basic Elvis interpretation. I attribute this serious lack of dancing feet to be due to the intensely athletic aka macho male culture. I mean, does American football playing encourage a guy to then go and gracefully boogie? I did date a fabulously skilled dancing black/Chinese American of Jamaican heritage and Canadian upbringing for a time. We had a blast, but when we broke up, a part of me wondered if I'd ever have a dancing boyfriend/mate again?

I've always loved to dance. I wanted to be a ballet dancer when I grew up. I was that little (horribly cute and obnoxious no doubt) girl with blond curls who danced pretend tap on the teak coffee table to the duets of my mother and her friend the cellist. I wound up and put on all the music boxes in my grandmother's summer cottage and danced about the room, oblivious to any spectators. By the age of seven I was going to ballet class. Then I started going twice weekly; then I added on jazz modern, and gymnastics... At university, I tried my hand at choreography. But actually, I really just loved to move, being intellectually creative with my body wasn't what I sought.

When I came to Arles and started seeing Erick, we had a couple occasions and parties where we were able to dance. He liked dancing 'le rock', the favored dance of the French, but, hated my way of dancing -- separate but together, facing each other but doing your own thing. Either le rock or nothing. He'd leave the dance floor whenever he didn't like the music -- which was unfortunately way too often for me. Then, if I tried to continue dancing in my own way, I'd get unwanted attention from various men, married or not. It was very frustrating. However, our dancing opportunities were few, the ever rarer wedding bash, and then life, kids, etc., got in the way and dance fell out of my life completely. Years went by and my past life as a lover of dance was just that.

And here we are in the present. I bought Jean Paul An American in Paris the other day, and we watched it together during the past week's winter vacation. He'd never seen Gene Kelly dance. I, raised by a mother who adores all those wonderful Hollywood classics, was emphatic that he had to experience this American love letter to Paris, and watch one of the world's most fun cinematic dancers (next up, Singing in the Rain and the Gene Kelly duet with Cyd Charisse). He was amused by the romance, the kitsch, the nostalgia for a Paris that is no longer. I liked re-visiting the characters, the good American who is honest, energetic, optimistic, joyous, naive and enthusiastic. Anything is possible, if you want it enough.... We both enjoyed the romantic couple's dance between Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron down by the Seine, so smooth, so lovely, the push and pull, she sinking back into his embrace.

I can't deny that part of Jean Paul's charm is that he loves to dance. Long before there was anything between us, he told me about his tango lessons, and then his swing and salsa lessons and I listened avidly. When he later told me of his weak ankles and that he'd given up dancing due to them, I was dreadfully sorry. Why he asked? And here I taught him the English word "vicarious"; I'd been enjoying living the life of a dancer vicariously through him.

But happily, the ankle is better (if not perfect), and from the moment we started going out, we've been dancing together. I am re-born to a distant part of me. For too many years now I'd hidden away from myself how much I loved to move, how much I adore rhythm, and sensing each part of my body flow to the music. Now, if not weekly, then quite often we go out to dance. It might be Salsa, Swing or Tango, or le rock, always a good fallback. Salsa is pretty easy, swing can be terribly hard to do well, and tango... well, we're taking classes together by absolute necessity. You don't just dance tango.

When I first attempted to, I was simply two left feet stumbling over each other, no matter my past dancing history and my current yoga practice. It was hard. Jean Paul would try to teach me some basics, and then suffer through my stubbing toes and my insecurities, and nervousness. And I was hyper-conscious that it wasn't much fun for him, that he was being stoic and patient (he's had over five years of tango lessons). On top of all this, I'd never really done any couples' dancing, and learning to follow his lead, no matter the dance, was still a new skill for me.

A year since I was first introduced to this complicated art, it's finally getting easier. I am still at the stage of refining how to be on my axe and how to hold lightly to my partner (yet be chest to chest close too), how to stay longer on the standing leg and allow the free leg to be freer. Over and beyond these basics, I'm getting better at being attentive to the signals of my partner, and to move gracefully, fluidly from step to step... or wait till the signal is clearer.

Oh, and yes, for a shoe-aholic tango is awesome. Imagine, you get to draw your feet, fine tune their measurements, send them by email to a far-distant shop in Buenos Aires, and two months later, get a marvelous personalized package in the mail. The more outrageous and colorful the style, the better... So far, I've kept this shoe lust in check: I've only two pairs. But, the temptation for more is there...