Boundaries and Language

A realization

I am in awe of people who document their every waking moment. How do they, I ask myself, muster up the courage, have the energy, the conviction that people want to know?

But, people do want to know. I first became aware of this at my cooking school. Already I was stretching my own boundaries by inviting students into my home, introducing them to my family, opening up in a huge way that didn’t at first feel comfortable. I’ve entertained and had large groups of people in my home since I was able to wield a knife, but never had strangers come into my personal space. When one of my students asked if they could tour the house I was shocked. I said no, and left it at that.

But everyone is curious about everyone else’s private life. Before social media I always read PEOPLE magazine on the airplane when I’d return to the U.S. It was like a cultural crash course. I’d arrive absolutely au courant and could participate in cocktail conversation with aplomb.

Boundaries are nearly non-existent now, though, and at any given moment we can be up to date on the holes in someone socks, what they ate for breakfast, who they are hanging out with, which deliciously unreachable dish they’ve just made. I participate, thanks to colleagues who tell me I must.

It’s not that I’m not curious about others, I am, enough to have traveled the world to interview everyone from legislators to food producers in their homes and fields, to women in a secluded village in Turkey where I lobbied for almost three hours with the tribal chief to allow me to see them.

So, I do want to get into people’s private lives when I want to understand them, shine a light on them, or exchange something with them. But I don’t particularly want strangers in my private life.

But I’m going to get private here because I want to share something sweet. I have been in the grand state of Texas for almost three weeks, visiting with my son and his family, which includes nearly two-year-old Susie who is in that adorable cuddly stage that is more delicious than a profiterole. It is a wonderful time of the year to be here, with bluebonnets (and red bonnets) blanketing the fields, the greens of spring emerging, the afternoon light surprisingly gentle for the warm temperatures.

I began coughing about four days after I arrived, and assumed it was the pollen that was leaving a golden blanket on everything each day. I don’t have allergies but couldn’t explain it otherwise. I just kept coughing but was feeling fine enough until the day of my departure. Then, as if someone turned on a switch, the coughing became debilitating, and it was accompanied by other painful symptoms. I got to the airport, got on the plane and then, just like in a spy novel, a burly man dressed in black came up behind me and, before I could even sit down, said “Ma’am, y’all seem really unwell and we can’t risk a crisis in the air so we’re askin’ you to leave.” He wasn’t asking, actually, he was steering me off the plane and I was not resisting. Soon I was surrounded by a team of 911 caregivers (all gorgeous young men who, in my delirium, looked just like French firefighters), then whisked away to an urgent care where I was diagnosed with pneumonia.

Needless to say, all my plans have been cancelled, my work put aside, as I recuperate. I’ve had to ask a few people in France to tie up some odd ends for me until I can return; one of them is my handyman who has worked for me for more than two decades and merits family status. And his recent note to me is really the reason for this post. I’d asked if he could mow the lawn in my small Louviers garden. Here is his texted response (via google translate, he doesn’t speak a word of English):

“Good evening, Suzanne. Pneumonia it’s not great I hope it’s not too serious ok for the lawn I’ll try to mow if it doesn’t rain to make your house prettier see you soon, I kiss you.”

This sounds rather familiar coming from a handyman no matter how long he’s been in our lives, but it isn’t. It’s just the charm of the French language, the poetry of a simple, daily phrase. And when I read it, I realized I’m surrounded by this beautiful poetry every day in France and will heretofore appreciate it even more on my return. It only took pneumonia to remind me!