This evening is one of the rare times when my upstairs neighbour and friend Johanna and I, end up conversing in our native tongue. We are desperately trying to get an internet connection good enough to be able to stream the TV channel France 2, and wait for the final countdown leading to 8pm when the new face of the President of the French Republic will be revealed. Two fidgety bodies on a tiny sofa:
“Putain, ça bug!”
“Vas-y, je flippe.”
“Y a pas moyen. Pas Marine Le Pen. Pas Marine.”
“Ouuuuuf. Ok. Ouf. C’est bon”
“Mais c’est qui ce Macron déjà?”
We did our duty via postal vote, yet we are far, far away from French politics.
Before her knock on the door, I had been overwhelmed with sadness and anxiety. I cried but I wasn’t sure why.