les pieds noirs

Everyone here eats yogurt, and at all times of day; Danone makes a great one with figs. Babies’ bottles are filled with Evian.

Yet I am plagued by a kind of homesickness that only Eric Schrode or Hannah could really understand. I really thought my roommates loved me. They have provided me with fresh basil, furniture from Ikea…my room has its own potted plant, vaguely reminiscent of a yucca. But I fear that my colocs have had a change of heart. Our bisous are fewer and farther between. In my dreams they tell me that we have to find a new apartment; sometimes these dreams end by the sea, sometimes in dark houses filled with knickknacks. I’ve begun to dream with the calculated authenticity of movies: my dream-self speaks in English, but with a heavy French accent. Romain has confiscated my cache of American chewing-gum, and in retaliation I have eaten nearly all of the chocolate-peanut butter candy I brought to impress my students. I’ll have to ask my mom to send me more, and I’ll have to lie and say my roommates ate it all…which is so unfair to them, they eat nothing but seasonal vegetables, lean protein, and yogurt.