Suzanne à Grenoble

I’m sitting at gate 20 in Heathrow airport with an enormous paper cup full of a peppermint mocha espresso-type drink, staring out the dirty glass at bizarre concrete windowless buildings that resemble cardboard packaging material. In my left ear, a monotone muffled CNN reporter is reporting about something not interesting enough to be able to make sense of, and in my right ear, Ella Fitzgerald is sweetly telling me not to do anything until I hear from her. It’s true what they say about London—it’s drab, and cold and grey. Even the air in the airport is grey. Maybe that’s unfair, judging a city by the view from its airport windows. But I don’t really care. It’s grey here because I say it is. Because my heart is grey and heavy and any afternoon is grey when in the morning you’ve left a love behind in a country of vibrant blues and reds.

I don’t know what I’ll miss the most about France. Perhaps I’ll miss the novelty of speaking a language that is all but dead where I’m from. It started to become a part of me, in the end. Whereas when I first arrived in the country I had to force myself to think and react in French, these past few months the “oh la la”s and pouty lips and shoulder shrugs just seemed to flow from me. It doesn’t feel like a new, French Suzanne was created this year, but rather, that she was already there inside of me, a bit timid at first, but ready to become one with the land of cheese and wine and love.

Ah, love… I really don’t know what to say about leaving behind mon chéri in Grenoble. I could have stayed, I really could have. But then there wouldn’t be anything to write about. And that wouldn’t be in keeping with my tradition of impossible relationships that put a strain on my heart and my phone bills.

Taking opinions--now that I'm not in Grenoble anymore, what should I call the blog? Should I leave it as is as an hommage?