Le Mistral
January 16th, 2008Story and Images by Anyuli La
El puerto de Cassis
The Mistral is blowing again. The sun and colors of this country are just a mask for its cold heart; this icy northern wind is its blood. His chill follows me for some reason, into buildings, conversations, my dinner plate. The bastard is always there, his frozen breath trickling down my neck. I hate the Mistral. He reminds me that I don’t belong here: that in my Caribbean home there is no wind-chill to give me goose bumps, that no matter how natural my French accent becomes or how gracefully I tie my scarves, I will never belong.
Puerto Rico
He’s there in my bones, never letting me forget that I am an island bred mutt. The daughter of slaves and exiled whores, of the third world and the Monroe Doctrine, of palm trees and coconut milk, of African spirits and catholic saints, of ocean sunsets that never give up hope. Yet here I am, in a country that lost its hope hundreds of years ago. All that was left was the Mistral. His artic touch keeps the tropics alive in some form, in my mind. And under his frigid whip, I wander through blazing Antillean streets. The wind beats my chapped skin, but inside…oh inside it’s warm! The colors of Provence become vivid; my eyes, unfocused, see home. It’s a mnemonic labor of love. The Mistral loves me, like a man that beats his wife, and I love him back.
La Rotonde
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