For those who have aussi been forced to traduire les paroles de Georges Bressons

For my SIT cohort: Vous me manquez, deja.

There are so many, many things about the time we spent in France that I won't ever be able to explain to anyone else.

You are the thing I miss most about France; the people who understand my awe and terror of Leila (Ghregh??), who were likewise trapped for a semester in salles trois, quatre, and tres, and who likewise learned which ordinateurs dans la salle informatique were the least unacceptable (including the one you had to beat on to make it work properly, selon the directions ecrit on the petit panneau).

We loved Eric and loathed the Atelier d'Expression; we suffered ensemble through brebis and Aveyron and Ariege and torrential rains and beaucoup trop many tours.

We answered the question "What *surprises* you about France?" for the 200th time with smiles and without flogging anyone to death.

We parl-ed in constant Franglish (and sometimes even Frangleshpanol).

We discovered the English books and American TV shows a la Mediatheque, and we escaped from all those Algerian/Tunisian/Moroccan/"French"men without too much incident, eh?

We introduced Paris to the Car Bomb.

We outed Greg and Laura.

We learned what happens when you put unleaded fuel in a diesel engine.

We cartooned our teachers.

We know which one of us speaks the slowest, whose voices are so soft you can't hear them on the telephone, who has to preface all her interactions with French people with a long self-deprecatory preamble, who absolutely cannot speak in public, who doesn't like space, who touches everyone's hair, who makes the most derisive faces.

Who *always* has to talk with her hands. :)

Without Sam, who was there for the Thierry debacle from the beginning and who knew but didn't judge about the girl from the Lolita Cafe whose calls I quit returning, I never would have shared l'Ancienne Belgique, or eaten the best Tibetan meal of my life in St. Germain. I want to retire to your sheep farm, in Scotland, New Zealand, the San Juan Islands ...

Without Marissa and Greg, I never would've known for sure that no man is sorry that he'll never carry a baby, or that someone can love both Tom Waits and cute puppies with the same fervor, or had someone to smoke, drink gin and tonic and talk dirty with, or learned the merits of loose-leaf Gauloise, or played pool beside the Mediterranean.

Without Tricia, no one would have understood why Joey was NOT SPEAKING FRENCH! or the debate over the meaning of San Diego, or the only way to bag a classy lady (take her to the gun show ... and see if she likes the goods), or why I spent a French semester in a glass case of emotion. Or the deep significance of "America - fuck yeah!" and "Qu'est-ce que c'est haut, chien?"

Without Matt, I'd never have learned the difference between porn and "erotic films," or been able to meaningfully discuss the degustation of fried chicken, biscuits, and macaroni and cheese, or the joy of leaving your bread on the plate with your food.

Without Rebecca, no one would have answered my English with French, and there would be no one to carry on my Santiago de Compostela legacy. (I'm counting on you, girl.)

Without Ellen, who should absolutely NOT become an RA, I'd never have given a shit about caves or ultimate frisbee, or quaked in fear merely at someone's scowl, or learned to avoid Maison Pillon, or discovered the infinite variations possible for "Eeewww."

Without Laura, there'd have been no one's love life about which to speculate, and I never would have met the only girl who could make ice interesting, and whose patience will surely one day merit canonization. Keep that one in line - I know you will. Will you invite me to the wedding if I give you guys an ice pick and a pair of giant tongs?

Without Abi, I'd never have eaten the closest approximation of real Mexican food France has ever seen, or listened to three different versions of Romeo and Juliet in succession, or been able to replace the birthday song with Estas son las mañanitas. (Gracias para siempre.)


Without Brittany, I'd have had no pirates in France, no fellow Boulder, no one who was sick more than I was, no stories of Enrique, no one with whom to faire le bis back in Colorado. "Malheureusement, j'ai casse mon parapluie dans l'Aveyron! Et toi, tu as casse le tien, aussi, je crois. Il y avait beacoup trop du vente! Et Greg aussi, il a perdu le sien quand meme. Il faut accheter un autre, a cause de la pluie, sinon on va etre trop mouiller!" (I wanna say something. I'm gonna put it out there; if you like it, you can take it, if you don't, send it right back ... I want to be on you.)

There aren't any words for you, Julie, my Berkeley copine. Thanks for being at St Bertrand de Comminges that day, for watching the hours of montages, for laughing at Pink and Christina Aguilera, for eating raclette, for loving Ani and Orishas and Alicia Alonso, for knowing Dar Williams and Mollie Katzen, for telling me about Cuba and helping me decide about Africa, for that day at the library. For being the other Californian, the other dancer, the other American in the French host family milieu. Cheeseboard, Lovejoy's, the Ferry Building Farmer's Market, Cowgirl Creamery, Point Reyes, burritos in the Mission, Big Sur await. Come to Boulder and I'll introduce you to the snow.

Vooooiiillaaa. Tout a fait.

Ai, ai, ai.

Si vous n'existeriez pas, dites-moi comment I would have made it through the past four months. Moi, je n'ai aucune idee. Quand je suis arrivee en France, I would not have believed how much you all would mean to me. Mais, vraiment. *Vachement.*

A bientot, kids, et je vous remercie pour tous les fromages.