Cultured

We decided to go to the cinéma that evening. France released a film about Yves Saint Laurent. However, by the time we’d listened to the street band, perused the sales, regarded the pedestrians (the café chairs always face the sidewalk) and finished our café, the film showings at the cinéma nearby no longer suited us. Deeper into the 5^th arrondissement, we found a theater that showed old films. The next one, Alexander and Fanny, was in 15 minutes. I recognized the name of the director commended by my host family from earlier years.  

Hannah and I found ourselves wedge on velvety cushions between an older Madame who seemed to have been sitting there since noon, and the wall. We felt very cultured in that old theater of old people.

The movie portrayed subtitles which was lucky for all of us since the film was carried out in Swedish. Somehow, Hannah and I had overlooked this detail. Once I successfully focused my eyes on the french text and stopped my ears from straining at the swedish, the movie was much more comprehensible—though it took an hour for the plot to gain any purpose or momentum. After 2hrs followed by a silent intermission of 3min, the intrigue finally escalated with a treacherous marriage, child abuse, fire, and poison. Though it took nearly four hours, in the end, I thought it a good decision—both by the directors and by the audience—to persist. 

The film was long and sometimes tedious, but all the learned and smart things are, so I felt myself quite well-educated as I unfolded my umbrella in the lamplight before the stone steps of the cinéma and set out into Paris with my friend and a high brow. 

Woman

You protest against your hair, so long that you are obliged to comb it? Well, let me tell you as you put it back to the #2 shave it held before you met me where I cannot run my fingers through it; it’s hard to be a woman. 

At the end of a day, the first thing I want to do is to slip between my sheets, to rest my pounding heart and thoughts in the dark, warm unconsciousness of sleep. This is the last thing I do. 

First, everything has to come off: there is the eyeliner, the mascara—it runs across my face in a mask but I will leave the lipstick; the stained color is nice—the heels, the hose, the dress...and other things...the oils that gathered on my face during the day require a different type of soap, scrub away plaque and polish with floss. Then I pause, look in the mirror, think for a moment, sigh, and redress: attend to the imperfections reddening my face, lotion, creme the lips, retainer replaced, a glass of water for the morning run tomorrow, hair let down, brushed, braided (what would you say if I shaved my head too?). And just when I think I am ready to go to sleep, I remember it will be warm tomorrow, so I climb under the shower and shave (why do we care about it anyway?). The concerned surface area is much greater than yours, I assure you. If I wash my hair, it takes much longer for then there is the drying and styling. Since I am running in the morning and I am tired, I will leave it. Now, eyes covered with the comfort and darkness of a mask, I can sleep.

The next time you tell me your hair is so long, I will give you a look that says this paragraph. Then, maybe you will smile and let me run my fingers through your hair again. 

Omaha

I encouraged my parents to stay in Paris for the majority of their week in France. Accordingly, we spent only one night outside the stuffed streets of Paris. We went to Normandy, to Bayeux, passing the majority of the daylight hours seeking the car rental office, baggage in tow. Well, the lucky ones had their baggage. I was on day three in France and day four in my jeans since my suitcase still lingered somewhere between Philadelphia and unanswered airport phone calls.

Our Rick Steves inspired WWII tour commenced at the windy cliffs of Arromanches. He suggested a 360 movie and museum tour to follow but January and a closed for the month notice suggested otherwise. At least we were unbothered by tourists.
At the precise moment we stepped into the cemetery boundaries above the Omaha Beach, it began to rain. Wind smacked thick cold drops against our unprotected bodies. Not knowing when we would next be in Normandy, we continued sloshing along the walk, laughing and whimpering, running from from tree to tree when Mom would let me onto the grass.
We made a small circle back to a pavilion at the head of the American cemetery. The rain slowed and the wind stopped. At the fading light, we listened as TAPS persuaded our country's flag from its post and into the careful hands of its keepers.
Quiet.

The tide below the cemetery followed the sun into the sea and we walked along the pools that were left behind.

I am endlessly grateful to the men and families who gave their futures for our present.
I pray that I will only ever have to imagine what it was like for them, their fathers, their brothers, and their sons
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