Whenever I meet someone new, I like to learn more about who they are by asking them what they are passionate about.
So, Rose-Gaëlle, what is your story?
I woke up gasping for air. The intense light hurt my eyes, a dead giveaway that I was most likely in an un-acquainted place.
I attempted to find by bearings while awaiting the bizarre fog to gradually vanish.
So far, all I could make out was a room as pearly as Central Park in the middle of stormaggadon.
The constant beeping nearby was starting to drive me nuts. “Wait a minute”, I thought to myself, “non-smart electronics near me? Please tell me they have a motion sensor, a multi-touch interface, or are voice-activated.”
I sat upright on a bed so uncomfortable that it made me miss the yoga mat on which the recent Grad that I was slept for months after moving to New York City, as fastidious in my furniture purchase as Steve Jobs.
My breathing pattern now steady, I could slowly shift focus to my blurred vision, which had curiously still not recovered.
My rampant thoughts resumed, as though aimed to distract me from this troublesome situation: “A freezing cold white room, repleted with noisy appliances, and a grievous bed. I must be in…”
– “Elle s’est réveillée !” shouted a sweet and effusive feminine voice. Several footsteps promptly chimed in, sounding closer and closer to me, and accompanied by equally rowdy voices.
For reasons unbeknownst to me to this day, the first sentence I uttered despite the brouhaha was:
– “Où est Monsieur Noël ?”
– “You don’t remember, do you?”, asked a familiar masculine voice in English.
– “Of course I remember last seeing Mr. Christmas!”, I vehemently replied, “My mind is clearer than the tropical sky after a storm.”, I added, proudly translating a quote from one of my favourite childhood books. [*1]
“Shall I start from the beginning?”
[*1] Le Pont de la Rivière Kwaï, Pierre Boulle, 1952.
PART I: DEAR MR. CHRISTMAS: HAJIMEMASTE
PART II: DEAR MR. CHRISTMAS: THIS TOO SHALL PASS (CELA AUSSI PASSERA)