Le Banquet

Some afternoons, i sit down and have a cup of tea whilst doing something fun, like reading the newspapers. I like putting my feet up and watching the shadows the afternoon sun casts on the ground. I can feel the warmth, although i am tucked away in a coolish corner. During those afternoons, i think back to the afternoons i used to sit in the armchair in my old room in my parents' house and devour 'Country Home', pages filled with white lace, lavender, homemade bread and French antiques. When i closed my eyes, i could smell the heady scent of lavender as i walked through fields of it; i could taste the warm bread in my mouth, slathered in butter and jam; I was the woman on the bicycle, riding home with fresh flowers and a baguette in her little white basket. I would walk up to my apartment and sit down to write in a little corner of the room, disturbed only by the sounds made by schoolchildren laughing as they walked home and the singing birds. There were flower pots in my balcony. I was surrounded by happiness- happy sights, happy smells, happy thoughts. My white and blue striped cotton shirt kept me cool as i cooked a simple dinner of spaghetti, basil and crushed garlic in olive oil. There was nothing to worry about. I had food, i had my writing. I didn't need a body to keep me warm at night. My body kept itself warm by being enclosed in a cocoon of joy and dreams that had come true. A simpler existence filled with quiet moments during the weekdays and brunches with friends on the weekends. My skin glowed from good food and sunshine. Never a dull moment. No yearning for a better life. Not depending on another being. I drank tea out of a white tea cup. I ate my vanilla yoghurt and strawberries out of a pink bowl.

Today, i place some yoghurt and strawberries in a pink bowl and stare at them for a minute. They look so pretty and they remind me of something. What? And then i remember. They remind me of my life in France, my dream-life, the life i used to live when all around me was chaos. It was so easy to segue into that life. I only had to close my eyes and a second later, i was buying fresh bread from the baker and riding my bicycle home. On the way home, i will stop by the cafe. "Yes, i will have that pear tatin with my coffee. Merci."

Now i think, it is not impossible to have that life, is it? I don't have to go to France, although a little part of my spirit yearns for the day i can. I am searching for a house, a home. And as i search, i see myself sitting at my desk, with the sun pouring in. The smell of Jasmine is everywhere. I write and write and write until my fingers are tired. I see myself slicing fresh bread for breakfast and putting a generous amount of butter and homemade apricot jam on top. My steaming cup of coffee in a black mug sits next to me. On a Wednesday afternoon, after teaching four classes, i bake a pear tatin and eat it whilst it's barely out of the over. Ow. I've burnt my tongue but it's a small price to pay for such a treat. I lick my fingers after. As i search for my house, i see quietness and peace and evenings spent watching a romantic DVD. I see flowers and toile and beautiful paintings. I see a teapot and mismatched cups and saucers. I hear French mandolin playing on the stereo.

Yes. Yes, it is possible.