France has two beginnings to the year. Like much of the world, a good part of the country wakes up on January 1st with a headache and a bunch of short-lived good intentions. This year, my resolution was to keep mama and papa from sleeping. I’ve pretty much kept that one up rock solid.
But the real New Year in France starts at the rentrée. No headaches or good intentions, just a lot of suntans and stories about summer vacation. Anyone who knows France knows that, here, the rentrée is the real beginning of the year, which lasts until the following summer.
The wind down to the summer was quite busy on the fourth floor of the rue Lecourbe, and at abuelita’s house. After the cherry jellies there were the mirabelles and then the wild blackberries. The terraces were still full of sun and people looking cool. I hung out by the pool and watched the Gongo practice his backstroke. Fancisco came back and then left again. My cousins came to visit from Rome. Sam and Robby cooked great things at the Chetif Moulin, and cousin Mathieu braved the thorns to pick three kilos of blackberries with papa.
I’m ready now to tell all my new friends at school about my glorious days on the beach. About my wonderful abuelita. About Franciscos’s visit and the wonderful jams that my papa made. I’m ready to tell them about how they better be nice to me or the Gongo will kick but and take names. I’m ready for my first red helium-filled balloon. Yep, it’s been a good summer.
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