Adieu

I'm still basking in the novelty of everything in the métropole that I've been deprived of, the trains, the metro, the cafés, the pastries, the musées, the amenities in every city. It's funny to come back for the second time. It feels almost like a homecoming. Of course, I'm more familiar with things this time around, but now, I'm noticing not how different but how similar France is to my own country, compared with the place I just left.

On my last day in Martinique, I freaked out, just a little bit. Driving down the winding country roads after a visit to Grand'Rivière, at the northern tip of the island, I thought to myself, I may never see this scenery, this paysage, ever again. Martinique is not so accessible, like the European countries. It's a speck on a map, a tiny island in the middle of nowhere, and it's a very real possibility that I may never go back.

One of the assistants told me, "You know, you never really leave a place." My heart isn't aching to be back there, at least not yet, but every so often I'll have a flashback to my former life, just random, stupid, little things, the cafetière at school, something cute or funny one of the kids said to me, flashcards from an atelier d'anglais I attended. I think my friend might have been right. I'll always carry a little bit of Martinique in me.

The things I'll miss most are the simplest. The fresh night air, not too warm and not too cool. Driving full speed down the N1 highway, windows down, breeze blowing though your hair. Roadside conversations with strangers and acquaintences alike. Rounding the crest of a hillside to be greeted by sweeping ocean views. Guava and passionfruit and starfruit and prune de cythère and carambole and mango and melon and banana and tamarind and I'm probably forgetting a million more. Yoga on the beach, amidst cliffs and crashing waves. The sharp green of the hillsides against the bluest of skies and fluffy snow-white clouds. Walking around in swimsuits and sarongs. The laughter of the taties, so earnest and spirited, at n'importe quoi. No wonder everyone looks so young. Gratins, accras, tender meat stews, vineagrette and piment on every sandwich. The insects at night. Hearing Creole -- yes, I finally learned to appreciate it. Baby beliers and their mewing, which sounded like the cries of small children. Fishing boats docked on the beach and the bavardage of the fisherman at the fish market. Fish being served whole to you on a plate. Eating with your hands -- écrevisses, crabs, trempages. Drinking the water from coconuts. Watching Martiniquan guys prove their manhood by slicing them open with machetes. All the colors at the market. Kids saying "Ello." Pure cane sugar. Hiking. The Caribbean rain, thick and heavy. Winding roads. Floups. The hello song. Sugarcane fields and the smell of burning sugarcane. Flowers, flowers, flowers, of every color imaginable, just spilling out from every gate and fence. And this is only the beginning...