In a whisper, up the mountain.

December 31, Saint-Ismier.

A friend for life came by in a whisper but long enough to go visit another, immutable, incisive, impertinent and inquisitive, a friend since high school too, he the teacher, we not yet quite on our way into the world. Bernard now retired; he's never ceased to be a friend.
We watched DVDs of live music and the kids fell asleep on the couch long before we stopped watching.
We went walking above the village with his mare, and Dylan and Nicolas went bare-back riding on Lady and I went sliding in the snow.
We bought pizza on the street from a guy who looked like Santa and we ate it on the train.
We arrived on Wednesday and left on Thursday.
The year is almost over and the smell of the horse after she rolled in the snow stays with me, and the flashing joy of friendship too I want to keep.

Out-takes (a trip in France - Paris hotel.)

December 25, Saint-Ismier.

Out-takes (a trip in France - Christmas window.)

December 25, Saint-Ismier.

Out-takes (a trip in France - the Loire castles.)

December 25, Saint-Ismier.

Out-takes (a trip in France - portraits.)

December 25, Saint-Ismier.

Out-takes (a trip in France - the Riviera.)

December 25, Saint-Ismier.

Camera, Christmas.

December 25, Saint-Ismier.

Finally a camera.
I was like a fish without water, without a camera (Fridman took my little pocket one with him when he left.) Last minute shopping before Christmas so that there will be memories to look at, too, and so I can see.

White Christmas.

December 25, Saint-Ismier.

It was a white Christmas here, in this surprising white winter, snow storm after snow storm in this country where I don't remember even one in forty years, climate change is wrecking havoc many say, and whatever it is holiday travelers hate it and the kids love it. It was a white Christmas, and probably the first they'll truly remember. Last week we built a snowman, it melted since but tomorrow we might build another one. Today was all toys and books and new movies, running around in pajamas, and I too.

Friends and saviors.

November 28, Paris.

But there was a birthday party with home-made brioche and cake, and a thirty-year-old friendship still.
At Anne and Edgar's Fred and I celebrated our birthday, which is on the same day although she is one year older, so we've been celebrating since she was sixteen and I fifteen, and Flo was there too, and my family united, for a joyful ending to a whirlwind visit home.

Paris blues.

November 27, Paris, France.

It should have been so wonderful, the cream of the trip, after the South of France, where I grew up, full of memories finally shared, Bordeaux and our circus friends, and the Loire chateaux all drafts and stones in a fitting shroud of cold gloomy weather, it should have been the coronation of the first trip to France for Fridman, his first step outside the United States since finally gaining his green card.
Our Paris stay was all that and then a bitter disappointment. It was an illusion shattered, and I was left with a bitter feeling of shame and treachery. The free country where I grew up, the country that bills itself, still, "France, land of asylum," looking down on my husband as one more intruder to be suspicious of, his skin being of the wrong - still! here! - color.
Following: conversations with Edgar, my friend Anne's husband, born and raised in Colombia, living in France for sixteen years now and still reeling under daily nags and inconveniences, from police to waiters, and the rest of my illusions disappearing like my breath in the cold cold Paris air of this winter of my comforts.
Paris blues, my French shame.
Where to now?

No more of all that circus.

October 29, Hugo.

It feels sad, as things ending will.
"Home run to Hugo" said the route slip, like every year. And everybody made it safe. Some had left straight for home last night, like Brian, who took off so fast I didn't get a chance to say goodbye; some left this morning; and then the rest of us, who park their trailer on the Kelly Miller winter quarters lot here in Hugo, all drove here.
On the way Fridman and I stopped at a gas station on highway 70 to wait as Teto filled his truck. The sign said: "Pierce's Country Stop: Feed/Beer."
We're in Oklahoma.
So it feels like our circus home, still, and not so sad yet, seeing Lucky Eddie, Delena, Susana walking around with Argio around the trailers, Tavana and Danny still at the office, the crew guys cleaning their stuff to get ready to leave for Mexico on Sunday. And there are no more waking up at five thirty every morning, no more driving the truck every morning, tired and awake or not, no more losing power every night, cold or not, no more gathering the pieces of what fell during the trip, no more wishing we would stay put, just one more day, just one more day.
Now there's the rest of the year without the circus.
And it feels unhinged, as things ending will, or maybe just circus people when they leave their wandering soul behind.

A trailer with a view.

October 29, Hugo, Oklahoma (108 miles, Kelly Miller Circus winter quarters.)

The last night.

October 28, Ardmore.

A trailer with a view.

October 27, Ardmore, Oklahoma (270 miles, corner of Commerce and Veterans Blvd.)

A circus crew.

October 26, Sedan.

Raising the tent every morning and taking it down every night since February 11th, raising the tent every morning and taking it down every night until October 28th, give or take a few double-day towns (and a few who didn't make it in time for the picture because they were still working,) the crew, the backbone of this circus.

Marie Carmen in the morning.

October 26, Sedan.

School children.

October 26, Sedan.

Reflections on the concession truck.

October 26, Sedan.

A trailer with a view.

October 26, Sedan, Kansas (73 miles, city park.)

Last images (clowns - again?)

October 25, Parsons.