good morning!

Jeudi, le 16 avril 2009. 10h. My desk.

My alarm goes off at 5:05am. Uggh. I slowly rise, and get dressed. For breakfast, the sweetest and softest bananas I’ve ever had, with some granola and local honey. I fill my water bottle, tie my keys into my shoelaces, and meet Priya. Time for our morning run.

It’s dark, and for once, cool outside. The stars are still winking at us and the city is quiet beneath our campus on a hill. Quiet greetings. Watch set. The stray dog that lives outside our dorm, creatively named Spot, licks my leg as I stretch and he wags his skinny tail, waiting for some acknowledgement. Even dogs whom no one loves are loyal. Priya and I leave campus, running through the gates, past the mosque, and turning left at the Conseil Regional (like the capitol building of the island, which is both a department and a region of France). Spot skips ahead, pees, and waits for us. We’re slow today. We go left at the roundabout, crossing under a campus bridge heading west, towards downtown. It’s a flat sidewalk that accommodates for runners, strays, lingering drunkards, and old ladies on their morning walk.

We pass the light morning traffic. There’s a little house on the left with a swing set, banana tree, and rooster in the front yard. Bonjour. Other runners pass. ‘jour. By the time we get to our turnaround point, the clouds are mottled with pewter and the beginnings of blue. The sun lends the picture grapefruit gelato and butter cream. The sea is choppy today, after the lingering cyclone and heavy rains. Its tips reflect bits of white my way. At another roundabout, and underneath a billboard advertising reduced yogurt prices, we run beneath an enormous tree. She has innumerable vines cascading from her canopy and is LOUD with the chittering, tweeting, squeaking and jibber jabber of a thousand small finches. No other tree is like that here- it’s as though they just found out Cinderella can go to the ball after all, or something. My first smile of the day at the thought of their happy, happy conversation.

Priya and I wind up a hill in the park, catch our breath, and do some sun salutations after stretching. Spot lolls around on the mini-plateau and considers chasing a german shepard nearby. He’s totally out of his league, so he concedes and trots back, seemingly unfazed by the mileage, increading heat, or humidity. He snuffles my arm and bucks off like a puppy. It makes my heart ache for my dog back home.

We return along the sidewalk and pass the construction workers beginning their day with a joint of the ever ubiquitous zamal (marijuana, in créole) at the pizza shop on the corner. Although under construction, for a paltry 12 Euros you can buy pizza with tandoori chicken, or another with pineapple and tuna and some weird cream sauce. This culture is something quite unique, I’m reminded.

We’re nearing campus, thank God. Priya runs away from me, having properly warmed up her legs that never seem to end. Spot chases after her. The sun is almost visible over the mountains, and the sky is a lemon yellow and cotton candy pink girdled by long lines of periwinkle clouds. Mademoiselles, bon matin, mademoiselles! I hate that the men yell at women here. It makes me feel like an object. Priya and I bite our tongues- expressing our slim knowledge of French insults would be a waste of breath, and we have a hill to conquer before we can feel vindicated. Breathing deeply, leaning into the hill, leading with my knees, I slowly eek past the gendarmerie, whose ranks are just beginning their day. Cool down into campus, past the mosque-goers, eating samoussas (a Réunionais specialty: a fried triangle with a meat, veggie, or fish filling) and rubbing sleep out of their eyes for morning prayer. Pour Spot my remaining water in a styrofoam leftover container. A small snort of thanks in my ear as I free my keys. Success: we’ve gone and returned before the sun is even up. Even now, only an hour later, I can feel the difference in the breezy tropical air from when we began. My face is red, and I’m tired, but I’m satisfied, having properly greeted my pretty island as it arose. It’s hard not to love Réunion.

Classes are going to be over by next week, and some of my friends are leaving in just three weeks. Signs about check-out procedures have been posted, too. I can’t even imagine leaving now. Or soon. Or at all. Didn’t I just get here? Nevertheless, I too will be on a plane in only six weeks. I don’t let myself think about that right now, though. I have a bucket and some clothes to wash before I can go to the market, which is possibly my favorite thing ever. Mango and pineapple seasons are over, but tangerine/avocado/banana season has begun. I’ve never lived such a colorful, flavorful, exciting, and different life. Goddamn, I’m lucky.

Wish you were here,
Chelsea