Un autre Français mord la poussière

Tuesday, July 08, 2008

Un autre Français mord la poussière

Anyone who’s lived abroad knows that there’s one thing most people don’t ever get used to: always having to say goodbye, either because someone else is moving on or because you yourself must get along to the next stop in your journey.

This is no different.

In the spring of 2004, I was wandering the streets of Angers, France with my good friend Will who was visiting me during his studies in Belgium. We were both spending the Spring of our junior year in Europe, seeking cultural expansion.

I had only recently arrived there, so Will, having studied in Angers the summer before, had taken it upon himself to show me a thing or two about the city (which might be a laughable concept to anyone familiar with Will’s propensity to, well, be Will). We spent hours wandering the narrow streets of Angers, talking about life in Europe and periodically stopping for a beer or coffee.

As we made our way back to the bus stop to head to my host family’s house in the suburbs, Will stopped mid-sentence staring at a scrappy, mop-headed fellow who quickly returned Will’s gaze as a smile crept across his face.

“Holy shit!” they yelled in salutation.

I soon learned that the scraggly man before me was none other than Antoine Moreau – the Antoine Moreau.

Upon coming home after his time in Angers the summer before, Will had oft described Antoine to me as something of an avant-garde musician, Beat poet, and leader of a rag tag gang of philosopher artists who wandered the streets of Angers until the wee hours of the morning, drinking absinthe and howling at the moon.

…or something like that.

Well, Antoine and I became pretty good friends during the rest of my stay in Angers. We spent hours every week chatting over Belgian beers at Falstaff’s, the closest thing I ever had to a bar like Cheer’s. It was at Falstaff’s that I became a disciple of the Hops n’ Barley Method of Language Acquisition – that is, the idea that a couple pints o’ brew makes you fluent in any language you’re presently wasting your money on in a university.

Probably more than anyone, Antoine (and Duvel?) is responsible for my being able to speak French. He was a professor at the university where I was studying, though he wasn’t my professor, and early on I asked him to correct me whenever I made mistakes, even if it meant interrupting me mid-sentence. He’s remained faithful to that promise to this day.

Being a professor in France has its other perks, too, I guess. Not long after I met him, Antoine started spending a lot of time with the lovely Yu-Ting, one of his students. Things blossomed, and about six months or so later, Antoine found himself in Taiwan.

At almost the same time, I was moving to Paris after finishing my studies in the US to be with the Fanfan, who was a classmate of mine in Angers. So, Antoine and I didn’t see each other for some time, but one of the first things Fanfan and I did upon moving to Taiwan a year later was to call Antoine and Yu-ting.

Over the last two years here, Antoine, Yu-ting, Fanfan, and I have had some great times, but Antoine, Yu-ting, and their four cats have decided to move back to France and get married (bâtards!).

Now, Fanfan and I – still reeling from the loss of Guillaume and Céline – have had to say goodbye to Antoine, who is leaving a month before Yu-ting to get things ready for their four cats.*

So, another friend has bitten the dust. As I write this, Antoine is somewhere above, I don’t know, Kazakhstan? The group of friends that Fanfan and I hold so close seems to be disintegrating. Sure, we’ve got plenty of dear friends here, and life will go on, but Antoine and, soon, Yu-ting will be sorely missed.

* I can kind of understand one cat, but, really, who has four cats?

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