Here I am

“Wherever you are, there you are”- Anonymous

Voici. Here I am. Well, nearly. It began yesterday afternoon. Which current local time tells me was, in fact, this morning. Here I am several time sectors east of my comfort zone. My body aching against it’s abrupt aerodynamic removal from Pacific Standard Time where it has lived, more or less, for the past 21 years. Here I am. In Denmark.

In transit. Vancouver. Yesterday afternoon. Here I am. In a blacktop cab, in the front seat, two of my besties J and M in the back seat, my vacuum packed suitcase in the trunk.

“To the airport today, Miss?”

“Yes”. To the airport. Because today, (or tomorrow- depending on what time zone you’re browsing from) I will go to France. This is where it begins.

But I suppose it began earlier. Much earlier…

Discovery Passage Elementary. Campbell River. 1994 (or there abouts). Here I am. In second grade, Miss B(ee)’s class. Today we are having crepes as a celebration of the completion of our unit on France. Monet, Manet, Matisse, Renoir, Eiffel Tower, Paris= France. In retrospect, I suppose it’s rather remarkable that a 7 year old would be able to describe the context for Renoir’s “ La riviera”. Or make the distinction between Monet and Manet (a difficult contrast for someone who has just learned how to read Go Dog Go). Perhaps that is why we are celebrating.

There are a fanfare of toppings for our crepes; blueberry, strawberry, peach, whipped cream. It is sunny, I remember. Probably late spring. I know it is spring because the door is open and the sunlight is streaming in over the crepe fanfare spread across a long table. I am wearing a red French beret borrowed from my Grandmother. I feel sophisticated. On that day the crepes were enjoyed topped with sweet confections. I think there was croissants too.

On that night the enjoyment resolved into a 7 year old word called “updog”. The dog landed in just-in-case ice cream buckets placed next to our childhood beds. Food poisoning. Half the class. Maybe it was the croissants. Maybe not. Maybe it was the crepes.

Perhaps it was then. Perhaps it was before. Despite the terrific re-tasting of the crepes, despite what most psychologists might predict as a plausible case of “conditioned aversion” I still liked crepes. I still liked France. I had caught the bug.

South-West Marine. Vancouver. Yesterday afternoon. In the cab. Look at the enormous old houses. Multi-million dollar listings. Vancouver has changed. Then I think about how I counted thirteen cranes in the mouth of False Creek on Friday. 13 cranes picking at the teeth of Vancouver’s past. For the sake of the Olympics: the future. The cab driver gestures to the flat plains of the Fraser delta and claims it is one of the largest archeological excavation sites in North America. A cabbie with an anthropology hobby. Now, he says, they are extending the paved section of Translink’s headquarters to make way for new busses. He starts telling me about middens (mittens?) excitedly. And his basket collection. He looks me in the eyes. Uncomfortably long. Oh my god look at the road!

Airport. Vancouver. Yesterday afternoon. Here I am. Goodbye friends.

Flying. Seattle-ish. Yesterday afternoon. Here I am. Goodbye trees. Goodbye mountains. Goodbye ocean. Goodbye Canada. Goodbye familiar.

Hello adventure.
So here I am. Airport. Copenhagan. Sometime. Anytime. I might as well be a 16th century explorer in reverse. Or Amelia Airheart flying into the Atlantic abyss. Here I am blissfully sailing into the unknown. To the history of me meets France. Looking to learn a little something about future me. And perhaps getting a little revenge on the French for the crepe incident. My seven year old self is simply delighted.