Breathe in

by Nóra Jankovics (Hungary)

A leap into the unknown France

Inspirez. Eight lungs fill up slowly with air. I look through the window behind the yoga instructor. The small main square is still filled with life, even though the Provencal sky, on which I have hardly ever seen any clouds, has already faded to grey. I am used to colder winters. There are children racing on bikes, their excited shouting muffled by the window glass, their parents are casually walking a few meters behind them, seemingly deeply involved in conversations with other parents, but their eyes are vigilant, and their bodies are ready to act in case anything would happen. Expirez. I try to drive my focus back to the inside of the Puritan yoga room, back to the ethereal instructor, and even farther inside, inside my own mind, and be present. I need to concentrate to understand the instructions — it's been three months since I have come to France, but I am still having a lot of trouble with the language. With everything, franchement. Inspirez. I live alone, in the same school where I work with French and foreign teenagers, and I do not know any other volunteers in the town. I wanted to get out of the little studio, which will be my home for another six months, to be somewhere else, to be among people with whom I have some things in common. My mentor recommended me to try yoga. I do not have to talk here, which feels comforting after a whole day of desperately trying to make myself understood, but that also means it is hard to make real connections with the others. Expirez. Here I live among beautiful mountains, their peaks are covered in soft whiteness these days — refined, enthralling, relentless prison walls. I live among colorful houses with falling plaster, gravel smelling like urine; in a town where all the bars close shortly after midnight, but the sense of excitement still fills me as I discover new lanes and friendly alleyways every week. I live among peculiar people who kiss my cheek when I am introduced to them, and ask me how am I doing every time we meet; and still cannot stop me feeling that I am more of a stranger than the immigrants I work with. Because they have friends here: they speak each other's langauge and they can hug each other at the end of the day. I am craving physical contact. Inspirez. I try to get away and spend my weekends in different cities, staying with other volunteers — I am not only discovering France but also the culture of Germans, Italians, Georgians, Russians... We chat in their kitchen while we are cooking unusual dishes in Aix-en-Provence; we have a picnic of brie and baguette in the park overlooking the unfinished bridge of Avignon; we get into fascinating debates over a bottle of French wine in Manosque; we try to mingle among the locals on the loud, busy, smelly, and yet never not interesting and captivating streets of Marseille — and I envy them. I envy them for being able to experience all of these wonders every day, for always having someone with whom they can speak and eat and travel and laugh. Expirez. But my journey is different. It is harder, but I am growing each day. Every day, I am trying out something new, whether it is hiking with a group of strangers, helping immigrants with French spelling, or tasting Calissons. I need to learn to find peace alone, among these magnificent mountains and crooked streets and oddly polite people, and to try to make the most out of it. Inspirez. The instructor tells us to close our eyes and slowly move our hands towards each other, until our palms gently touch in front of our face. My right palm feels the warmth of my left palm and imagines that it belongs to someone else. My left palm feels the soft skin on my right palm and imagines that it belongs to someone else. I keep my eyes closed and my palms lightly pressed together in front of my face. For a long time. Then I breathe out.