Conversational French Halina Duraj While I sleep, a man attacks a police officer with a hammer outside the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and now 900 tourists huddle inside. In my kitchen, radio on, I make coffee and think of accidental congregations. I stood inside that cathedral twenty years ago. I took a photo without flash, of light penetrating the rose-shaped windows of colored glass. Years before that, I learned about the cathedral's architectural details in high school French class. I learned the phrase "flying buttress," useful in no actual conversations except those about cathedrals. Today I go to a yoga class in a park on a hill overlooking the city. While I bend and move and flow, I watch planes cross the sky, then descend among the skyscrapers to touch the shortest runway in the country, a runway that only a handful of pilots are authorized to fly, it's so tricky. Next to me in the yoga class is a little girl, maybe five years old, on her own yoga mat but clearly there because of her mother, on the other side of her. Her mother has long wavy dark hair, almost black, shot through with streaks of silver, which I like immediately because she is going gray magnificently, and we look to be roughly the same age. When the class begins, the teacher, whom I know personally and who has lost every parent and step-parent to cancer and remains the most quietly joyful person I've ever met, invites us into plank position. The little girl groans and says, "Do we have to?" which is exactly what I'm thinking. Her mother reminds her, in a whisper, that she can go into child's pose at any time. When she does, it makes me so happy—a real child in child's pose. In front of me, two heavier women bend and sway, as I do, at the behest of the teacher, and I think of us lifting our arms and turning, twisting our bodies toward the sun. Here in this class all bodies are beautiful, all bodies are sunflowers, these two women especially beautiful with their rounded rumps. After class, I talk to the teacher and two other women I know, one of whom is a microbiologist wearing purple eyeshadow who used to work at the university but now works for a kombucha brewery. The other woman is a marketing consultant for pharmaceutical companies but she's quit her job to take a self-appointed sabbatical and live off her savings for a while. The microbiologist tells us how she loves her new job, it's so exciting after all those years in academia; but it's frustrating, a little company and just getting started and already demand exceeds their capacity to supply and when she sees a need—so many!—she want to fill it herself but her boss tells her, Chill out, don't do too much, enjoy your [End Page 44] life, leave at five, it'll all get done eventually, there's no hurry. Kombucha isn't about hurrying. ________ After class, I stop at In-n-Out. I like to eat cheeseburgers after yoga. When I told a friend that, she said, "Man, your karma is fucked," which made me laugh. I read the news on my phone as I wait for my order. In New York City two nights ago, an off-duty ballet dancer rescued a homeless man from a plunge onto subway tracks. A woman had pushed him off the platform—no one knew why—and he hit his head and lay unconscious on the tracks while she fled. A few witnesses wrestle her in the stairwell; the rest of the crowd clusters at the edge of the platform, everyone screaming at someone else to do something (that would have been me). The ballet dancer does do something. He leaps down into the tracks with all the grace of his training and lifts the man into the outstretched arms of the people above. They pull the man to safety. The ballet dancer does not expect the tracks to be so deep. Hearing the train rumbling in...
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