Home is Where the Mayflies Are

Two seconds after walking the first load of luggage into my mom's house I noticed I had a mayfly on my chest. Silent and harmless, they cover everything at home. Right now I count seven clinging to the screens in the windows. One merely needs to exist to attract them.

I'm home for the summer, reacquainting myself with relatives and insects I haven't seen in two years. And birds. Red winged black birds in particular are welcoming. They're smaller than I remembered, but the red stripe on their shoulders is brighter. Sort of a ketchup red. But with a hint of orange.

Speaking of orange, last night I took a ride around the island with my dad and his dog in the dog hair mobile. With the harbor behind us, we rounded the curve towards East Point and I looked at the sun setting between Middle Bass and Gibraltar islands. Pink and orange filled the sky, and the sun melted into the flat lake. It was nice. I didn't even mind the dog smell.

In Grenoble sunsets are impossible. The mountains block the colors. Sunbeams shoot over their crests until simply extinguishing. Beautiful in its own way, it's not a Lake Erie sunset.

On the morning of day two, I woke up at 6:30. The house was quiet, but the birds outside were loud. I had a bowl of cereal in the kitchen. Watching me through the screen door was Mr. Jones, a stray cat my mother feeds. He was sitting patiently and blinked his eyes politely, waiting for something. I saw a bag of catfood and opened the door to the porch. He took a step back and watched as I filled a dish for him.

Mr. Jones is one of dozens of stray cats on the island. Living behind garages or in caves in the woods, eating at backdoors. There used to be a handful of cats behind my mom's house that she passively cared for. All of them were caught, fixed by the vet, and taken to a barn on the West Shore to live. The process was the brainstorm of an island woman. Within 6 months though Mr. Jones came back. He must not have liked life on the kibbutz.

He finished the bowl I set for him, then silently indicated he'd like another. He purred while I poured. His fur was thick, full of burrs and nettles.

When I was a kid we had pet cats. Thomas, Harvey, and Henry were the first. Then Elizabeth. Then came kittens. Rapidly. Every cat we had for thirty years was descended from these first four. Mom would try to get them spayed or neutered before their first heat, but frequently misjudged the passing of time. One cat would get fixed and another would get pregnant. "Yay! Kittens!" we'd scream.

Sometimes though we'd come home from school to discover the kittens were gone. "Where're the kittens?" we'd ask. "Drowned," Mom would say, her voice cruel and dark, as if she'd follow with "now eat your gruel!"

When she was finally better able to get control of the kitten boom, the cats we kept (read: hadn't pawned off on strangers or inhumanely euthenized) were finally fixed, guarenteeing no surprise generations.

Our last cat was Samantha. We named her Sam, until she got pregnant, then it was changed to Samantha. This misdiagnosis of gender was typical and played a major role in our situation. Samantha lived a long time, outliving her kittens and grandkittens. I attribute her longevity for a proclivity to the back yard. Most of our cats died after being hit by cars. Samantha lived long enough to see me enter kindergarten, graduate from high school, finish college, and start my first job in Cleveland.

In the cat's waning years, Mom would curse her. 'I can't replace the carpet until that cat dies,' she'd say. 'As soon as that cat's gone I can replace the scratched wallpaper by the back door.' Frail and blind Samantha ceased to have a name, she merely represented a major roadblock to decorating achievements.

Eventually she died from cat leukemia and Mom got to update the house. The porch and back door Mr. Jones sits at wouldn't be recognized by any of the cats who proceded him. But, in Mr. Jones my mom found a comfortable middle ground. She gets the joy of having a clean, fresh scented home and the daily company of a cat waiting patiently at her back door. Along with the mayflies.

Renaissance Cafe

Place aux Herbes

The day before leaving France I met Nadine, my first French teacher, to say goodbye. Also invited was one of her newer students, Monica, from Argentina via Italy. We discussed the variety of students at the Alliance Francaise and Monica's experiences in Nice. Before moving to Grenoble, Monica lived in Nice for a short time. I'm not certain on the details, but I think she was living with an elderly couple and keeping house. Within three months they both died and she was left without employment. And not speaking much French.

This story was told with a lot of humor. Dark humor. Nadine found it extra humorous because after a spring trip to Nice I emailed her several pictures of a cemetery there. I think it's normal to visit cemeteries and take pictures. Nadine disagreed.

Nadine had a demi, Monica drank a Schweppes, and I had a citron a l'eau.

Cafe de la Table Ronde

Place St. Andre

I met Jean on his lunch break for a drink. We discussed his recent return to the movie round table radio show The Steve Mac Couine Show. He recently quit after an on air argument with another host and life long friend. They disagreed on the quality of Almodavar's recent film Volver. Since then at least 10 people have approached Jean on the street to tell him how riveting the argument was. Jean was excited that at least 10 people listen to the show.

We also discussed Jean's adolescent crush on Kirk Cameron.

He drank a cafe and un verre d'eau, I drank a citron a l'eau.

Le Cafe Marais

rue Belgrade

Before heading to Papatzul for burritos, I sat outside and watched a bit of the World Cup match between the Netherlands and Cote d'Ivoire with Leena, Cho and her boyfriend Adrien. In a bit of Francophonic solidarity Cote d'Ivoire was the crowd's favorite, but the Dutch team prevailed. Cho and Adrien each drank a demi-peche and Leena and I each had a citron a l'eau.

Librairie BD Fugue Cafe

rue Jean Francois Hache

Eve leaves for the US tomorrow. She's the tall blonde woman from Pittsburgh who keeps her own counsel most of the time, then lets loose with a well crafted opinion. Or a moose call. C'est depend.

I went over to her apartment this morning with a bag of pastries to share with her and her brother Jeremy over coffee. She was out of coffee filters, and it was too hot and we too lazy to get some. So we just boiled water and dumped in the grounds and let it settle before drinking it. Gritty, but not bad.

Still hungry, Jeremy, the least lazy of us, ran out to the gas station across the street and came back with eggs and cheese. Which we promptly ate.

After, Eve and I walked into town, sticking to the shade when possible. Eve lives near the Palais des Sports. Elton John is performing there tomorrow night. In the lot behind the arena was a moving van with the sign "Reserved for the Tea Women" in the driver's window. We theorized who these Tea Women might be and if there was an Elton John connection. But it was hot, so we kept on moving.

Eventually, after looking for a toy store I'd stumbled across once (didn't find it) and going to the post office and bank, we settled into this comic book shop/bar. Reading hard cover copies of French BDs (elaborate graphic books very popular here) we each drank a citron a l'eau.

Le Kingston

rue de la Poste

Jean wanted to meet at a cafe so we could continue to bicker. Which we did on the sidwalk at this Jamaican themed place in the center of town. I noted that the passersby were of a completely different variety than I was used to seeing. Jean explained that we were in a "bourgeois" section of town. The kind of, sort of bourgeois Leena arrived and joined us. She had a noisette, Jean a demi, and I ordered a citron a l'eau.

Gaudi Cafe

Cours Berriat

I was late meeting Vincent at this cafe down the street. Which made the rendez-vous short. Vincent drank a tea, me a noisette.

Les Archers

Place General Leclerc, Voiron

I visited the Chartreuse distillery in Voiron with Leena, Nisha, and Nisha's sister Varsha. Then we walked around the town a bit before settling into this cafe. Nisha and Leena each ordered a demi-peche, Varsha an iced tea, and I drank a citron a l'eau.

Le Touring Hotel

Avenue Alsace-Lorraine

After hiking with friends, Leena and I went grocery shopping before dinner. Today was Pentecost, which is an official holiday in strictly atheistic France. Therefore our first and second choices of markets were closed and we ended up at a very busy Marche Plus. It appeared that the whole neighborhood was there.

When we left the store with our groceries - including a box of cookies begging to be eaten, we headed across the street to the Touring Hotel for coffee and to escape a sudden burst of rain. With the holiday, warm weather, and rain the cafe was also busy.

We both commented that the Touring Hotel gives us a familiar feeling. The bartender was playing a Tracy Chapman CD, the crowd was a mix of generations, and the bar's 1970s decor looks out onto the sidewalk through large windows. The bartender and waiter smiled and greeted us.

In short time, we were joined by Nisha and her sister Varsha, who is visiting from India. We opened the box of cookies and discussed their recent trip from Paris and how Leena and Nisha had recently bought two baguettes using only 1 and 2 cent coins.

Varsha and I are both scorpios and Leena opined her theory that every scorpio is born to replace someone in the family who has died or will die within a year. The rest of us expressed our doubts about this.

Varsha ordered a grand cafe creme, Nisha a petit cafe, and Leena and I both had grand cafes.