you can call me al

We all got frisked in the airport on the way down south to visit some of our oldest friends last weekend, even G, who seemed to enjoy his patting down so much I was afraid he would ask for more. It was the most polite frisking I’ve ever had, and if not done in a spirit of fun exactly, there was a whiff of apology and quota-meeting about the whole thing. One security agent even held B and cooed at him while the other agent checked me with the wand. G was wearing his flashing-light Spider-Man boots, on reflection perhaps not the best airport wear, but all I was thinking was that he could put them on and take them off by himself, which seemed practical at the time. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” was really the theme of the whole packing endeavor (who needs shoes?), and G’s behavior throughout, and yet we were met with such graciousness and goodwill at every turn, such astounding and effortless-seeming preparedness – the laundry basket fitted out as a baby crib, the breakable dishes silently migrated to upper cabinets – that I’m still marveling at the thing.

The Côte D’Azur really pulled out all the stops for us – hiking on Friday in the high meadow in our coats in the shadow of a low, feathery cloud that actually seemed to be following us, and then riding the ferry and picnicking on Saturday in shirtsleeves on an island beach in view of the alps. Looking back it feels like one long bright ribbon of conversation, walks, sunlight, and good things to eat, punctuated by occasional episodes of G actively trying to kill himself on rocks and terraces.

I loved seeing B held by so many hands that I mean to make a part of his life for the duration, the ease of being with old friends (even when being with us is not easy), and the special joy of seeing that the life they have made there is such a good and happy one. All four of our friends – Mme. Marron, husband C, and daughters J and E -- look wonderful, but the girls, whom we have known almost since they were B’s age, are so radiant now it makes my ribs hurt. They are smart and graceful and funny and make it seem natural that the first thing any well-brought up person ought to say upon entering a room is “what can I do to help?” And to keep saying it after three days of toddler is almost showing off, don’t you think? J and G continue to have their mystic connection – she remains the one person who can, without fail, calm him down – and E is, as always, the most serene and grown up of us all.

On our last night at La Bastiole, sitting on the terrace with an apéro of champagne, smoked salmon, and matzoh (it was the first night of Passover), C looked over at B, who was sitting in his carseat on the table, and said, “You know, he looks a lot like Paul Simon.” This was duly registered, and then we all got distracted by the size of the full moon, which was floating over the Mediterranean for all the world like a hot air balloon, and we called the girls outside to shiver in their sweaters and take pictures.

A while later over dinner, which had been pushed to an aggressively European hour in order to give G time to fall in his tracks and go to bed, Mme. Marron laid down her knife and fork and gave B’s carseat a gentle rock. “Do you all know,” she said thoughtfully, “where B is going?”

“No,” I said, thinking it was something existential. “Where?”

“He’s going,” she said with a satisfied smile, “to look for America.”

B looked blandly up at both of us with his monkey-button face, and I burst into helpless laughter.

“And do you know what’s on his feet?” she added.

“Tell me,” I said.

“Diamonds.”

It went on like that for the rest of the evening, pure silliness, tears rolling down our faces, observed by patient husbands, forbearing daughters, and the boy himself, clearly waiting for the day he could go meet Julio down by the schoolyard. At one point Mme. Marron said, “I don’t even really like Paul Simon.” But I don’t think either of us had laughed that hard in a long time.

In French you “render” a visit, which I like a lot – it’s more muscular than “make” and less transactional than “pay” (well, ok, if you take out the sense of “render unto Caesar”). My Anglophone ears hear the softer echoes of what render means in English, which take up several columns even in our small-type OED – to create, to transform, to give. I really felt it this time, sitting around the table with our chosen extended family, in a borrowed country amid borrowed beauty that belongs to none of us, and yet somehow being together made it home. And for that I truly give thanks.