Men walk and the mountains don’t move

Outside, a strange cowbell or wind chims late into this evening and a fog has settled almost to eye level on this stratified village. Life is vertical here, with the few houses stacked ontop of one another cut into the hills. I sat this evening on the couch with my French cross words and Antonia; the family’s daughter, seven, crawling around acting like the dog. I made great kid jokes with her about Shir Khan, the boxer puppy, having suddnely grown long hair and looking like Antonia. Her brother, Francesco, 5, came in and they wanted to play a game they had invetned called La Reine – the Queen. Great, I thought, as I settled onto the couch. What are the rules? Who gets to be the Queen? I heard the living room doors slam by Francesco and the 2 dogs, Mascarella, a black herding dog, and Shir Kahn scramble in. Antionia tackles the black dog by the waist and Francesco runs around screaming at everyone. Oh, my subjects, I thought. Donc comment on joue à la Reine? I ask. So how do we play this Queen game? I am mostly igorned; they scream and keep running in cirlces with the dogs. Antonia pulls Mascarella down. A moment of linguistic clarity happens. This game is not La Reine – the Queen. It is L’Aréne, the Arena. As in gladiators. And dogs. Of course- ica.


2 Responses to “Men walk and the mountains don’t move”

  1. Zane Says:

    Oh, I get it! French class!

  2. Bloggerrg Says:

    Hola senor and senorita! Hope all is well – your blogulations are a big hit over here. Wish you were here so we could hit you with some love ‘American Style’! lty ddw

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