English translation:  “The French language is a woman. And this woman is so beautiful, so proud, so modest, so adventurous, touching, sensual, chaste, noble, crazy, wise… that we love her with all our heart and soul. So much, that we never get tempted to be unfaithful to her.”

You know you have found the right match and masterpiece for the instrument - the bass for the Mississippi blues, the banjo for the Kentucky blue grass, the opera for the Italian, the concerto for the violin, the turntable for hip-hop, and the French for the tongue.  I remember my first international trip without my parents.  Destination Paris.  I was 19, naïve, open to awe, and saw everything with wonder glasses.  I remember the little town I stayed in with my big bro and friend Monteil.  The name was Le Blanc Mesnil, a little commune in the northeastern suburbs of Paris, almost 8 miles (13 Kilometers)  from city center.  The home was Guadalupian.  I felt the Caribbean warmth and one love, and the familiarity of brown people, green palm frond islands and azure seas.  This I could understand more than my three years of high school French with Dr. Sach’s and her savage red pen. (See my blog The Scarlet Letter)

Monteil’s mom set dinner in front of me on day 2, cassolette de chatrou.  She looked at me and said some phrase in french: “Tu as Faim?” I couldn’t understand the beautiful words, but I could see his mom’s pride and smile.  I looked at the plate and between the rich aroma of spices and seasonings, the earthy brown soupy tones and the thick fricassee of chives, parsley, onions garlic, all spice, I saw a slowly unfurled limb of a cephalopod emerging from center of the ocean stew.  My bro looked at me and smirked laughed at my polite processing hesitation. 

“You’ve ever had…uhhhhh?”  He asked as he searched for the word in English as I searched in mind how to eat it.  “No.”  But I’m willing to try.  I used a lilliputian fork and knife and slowly tried to cut the 10 foot tentacle into a bite-sized, manageable portion for polite consumption.   I was chewing for a long time, but it was good.  I learned my first rule of travel.  Try any food at least once.  A human has eaten it before and lived.

I had to adjust to the time change.  Monteil showed me the room where I would sleep.  He started rolling in the metallic shutters that closed off the light from the outside.  He said the sun rose early and I would need my sleep especially since tomorrow would be a big day.  “Wow!”  I was still figuring out these outside metal shutters, but with tiny holes so that the cool air of the Blanc Mesnil could filter through.  At night, on the hour, the clanging bells rang as the racing TGV trains whooshed by, their wheels clacking on the track so fast it became a hum that the sleeping, slowly conscious ear could not separate.  The haunting sound of their beastly, steel horns wafted behind like smoke filling the sleeping village with a light dusting of fernweh spirit.

Everything about France was euphoric, allokataplixisic or the fascination with novel details in a new place.  The portly French babushkas complete with her scarf tied Aunt Jemima style, shoved her way into the already packed train and popped up right under my arm as I grabbed a pole for balance.  I remember the faint, dizzying stench of armpit infiltrating the train and wondering just in case…but yes, I did shower and I did apply. Was the stereotype true?  The cobblestone streets of Paris whispered French sweet nothings, a little blond girl ran down the street to her home with a baguette, while the door slowly closed and a blast of fresh bread, pastry, dough, and love wafted into my nostrils and engaged drool.  My eyes darted from sky and architecture to poop and cobblestone.  As I swallowed a hot flaky croissant created with butter and made with french hands, I wondered about the state of the universe, is true love truly possible on vacation, and how could such a romantic city of light and love and whispers have so much brown and mush and poop?  I wondered.  The Mona Lisa was underwhelming, but I did pay my respects.  I thought in a nasally annoying American mousey voice:  “It’s so much smaller in real life.”  I remember a random statue in an obscure corner in the Louvre of a marble man nailed to a torture snake with his hands and elbows forming an upside down V instead of a T.  The sign below said…Roman torture.

I flanerayed through the Quartier Latin, and I melted at night at the top of Momarte where vendors hawked in beautiful French, “Crepes, Pain au chocolate, and Oui.”  At the top of the Sacre Couer, I saw why Paris received the nick name “The City of Light.”  The whispers of the people filled my ears:  “Par où allons-nous? »   « Où allons-nous manger mon chou? »  « Pourquoi ces touristes fous sont-ils si ennuyeux ?» 

You know a language has reached the apex of beauty and is truly a Romantic Language when you can call your lover a cabbage (ma chou), or a chicken (ma poulette), and they melt like a hot fondue complete with Comté, Beaufort, and Emmental.

Today, Tuesday February 13, 2024, is Fat Tuesday, Shrove Tuesday, Carnival Tuesday, Pancake Tuesday,  the Tuesday before the Wednesday, Ash Wednesday or what the Western Churches celebrate as Lent.  Lent is a period of penitential preparation, 6 ½ weeks before the Easter Holiday celebrated by some Christian Churches.  It gives a 40 day period of fasting and abstinence (excluding Sundays) to imitate an account in the good book where Christ fasted before his public ministry.  But why FAT… TUESDAY?  To prepare for the Lent, Christians prepared pancakes to deplete their stock of eggs, milk, butter, and fat, which gave rise to Pancake day in England.  The idea was to use up all the fats in the home before Lent in preparation for the denial, fasting, abstinence, and penitence. 

Others choose to give up specific pleasures and cravings such as alcohol, candies and sweets, social media during Lent to promote simplicity, self-control, discipline, and restraint.  When these desires surface, the goal is to allow them to trigger prayer and refocus.

This period though has also transformed into a festive celebration and worldwide cultural phenomenon marked with citywide revelry, elaborate parades, bacchanal, indulgence, and masquerade.  Cities Like Rio, Port a Prince, N’Orleans have become synonymous with the celebration.   What had started out as a religious tradition has become a cultural extravaganza.

In the French Quarter, Bourbon Street, New Orleans, revelers toss power faith and justice as beads of gold, green and purple from the lacy, iron grilled balconies of creole townhouses, a King is crowned, a key is presented, a cake is cut, a baby is found.  The French call it Mardi Gras.