Sur mon bureau... Vol. 1

Sur mon bureau, il y a une collection de boissons énergisantes. Je ne les bois jamais (car il faut toujours garder une poire pour sa soif et car je les suspecte de n'avoir pas très bon goût) mais elles sont l'assurance de toujours pouvoir surmonter LE coup de pompe.

LaDonna Chidester Pickett (1973-2007)

Lyon, April 17th, 2007

Dear Ladonna,

We've known each other for almost exactly 20 years, can you believe it? You sent your first letter through some pen-pal program I can't remember the name of when we where both in junior high school. Ladonna Pickett (strange name) from Sapulpa, Oklahoma (where's that?). When you think of it, we didn't have much in common. You were a girl into fishing and country music. I was a boy into computers and Madonna (there was something to your name after all).

From then on, we wrote back and forth. I'd get your letters once or twice a month, but I'd wish for one with every trip to the mailbox. I've kept them all. They're in boxes at home and at my parent's.

After 2 years (it seemed like forever then), we finally met. You were on a trip to Paris and I arranged for my grand-father to take me there by train (I think it even was on a school day). We walked you and your mother throughout the city and after an exhausting day, we parted over a Coke at your hotel (I've got pictures and I've kept the stirring stick). It would be 10 years before we met again.

Was it around that time that you started calling on the phone? I can't remember exactly. The phone would ring at 6.00 am (or was it earlier?), my mum would get it (she was the closest), understand it was you (she doesn't speak much English) and put me through. I was so self-conscious of my English at the time of the day and when I'd go back to bed and get up again, the phone conversation seemed like a dream.

Do you know I'm drafting this the way I used to draft all my letters to you (I wanted my handwriting to look good and my English to sound good)? It feels even more like really writing to you this way.

Speaking of my English, you don't know how much reading you letters and writing to you has helped it. I'm afraid I didn't teach you much French. I hope you didn't expect me to.

And so we kept writing. And we got on with our lives. You got married, I came out (you were so kind to me when I did).

When I finally took my first trip to the USA, you paid for my plane ticket so that I could visit you in Oklahoma. I'll always remember how nice and attentive you and your family were.
I always thought that someday, I'd return the favor. That you and Bobby would come here, that I would show you around town... I always thought I'd visit you again, this time bringing Serge. It was all a distant plan, but it was a plan.

We kinda grew apart these last years. Not really apart, but silent. I guess things happened in both our lives. I was too self-involved or lazy to write. I somehow forgot there is more to life than the internet. We did get in touch again last winter and while I'm thankful for that, I'm so sorry it was so late.

Your sister wrote to say you died last Wednesday. It's funny how the news took 5 days to reach me, just like you letters always did. Your funeral is today. I can't be there. I'll probably never see your grave. You will never see my home. I will never receive another letter from you.

I'm gonna miss you.
Love always
Laurent

Il y a des soirs comme ça

Sauvons la langue française : Au temps pour moi

Je dois l'avouer, jusqu'à récemment, je faisais moi-même l'erreur commune (piètre consolation) d'écrire « Autant pour moi ».

Or, c'est bien « Au temps pour moi » qu'il faut écrire, sauf dans les situations où il s'agit de réclamer une quantité équivalente d'une quelconque marchandise (« 1 kg de patates, s'il vous plaît » - « Autant pour moi ! »).

Les lexicographes invoquent une vague histoire de fanfare militaire pour expliquer l'expression. Mais, au temps pour moi, je ne l'ai pas retenue.