Postcards from Pessac
To some extent, the course of this study is necessarily subjective, at times verging on autobiographical.
As such, it must be acknowledged that all views and personal reflections come through the lens of a white, middle class, female New York native, with a privileged affinity for the notion of home and a softness that comes with a decade of living in the Pacific Northwest, on the unceded lands of the Coast Salish and Duwamish nations. Entries written under this “Postcard” series are personal musings and reflections, excerpted from my travel journal and dated as such.
19 September 2021
Emmanuel and I return from the market and enter through the front gate. Philippe greets us through an open window, perfectly framed at the end of the paved walkway. As we approach, a conversation develops in French above my head. I catch just enough to understand Emmanuel has reported a list of my groceries. Philippe’s expression needs no translation: my selections simply will not do. As quickly as one can say “fromage,” I am invited into the house for a glass of wine while Philippe prepares a proper dinner.
While we sip, my hosts recount various home renovations and alterations since his grandfather purchased the home in 1926, detailing negotiations with the contractor, working with the historical preservationist, and changing tastes between generations. The interiors are curated to perfection, reflecting the home’s current inhabitants without entirely erasing those who lived here before. Once I get past the décor, it is (as it often is) the stories that resonate most. I consider how much life these walls have held over the course of three generations of this family residence and what it means for this home to bear witness to a family’s history.
How many times has this meal been prepared in this very kitchen? How many greetings have been shared through that open window? How many heartaches and joys and tears and arguments and belly laughs?
I think of my own apartment.
I live in an ivy-wrapped brick building built about 15 years before Pessac, reportedly as housing for working women. In each apartment, there are hardwood floors, heavy crown moldings outlining plaster walls, original brass light fixtures, and built-in bookshelves outfitted with a secretary desk and glass doors. In each kitchen, an original porcelain sink sits below a window.
They say that when you brush your teeth or stand at your kitchen sink, you stand within millimeters of the same spot each time. For 100+ years, the person who called this apartment home has stood in the same place, practicing the same (seemingly smallness of) everyday tasks. As I wash my dishes or the day off my face, I am participating in a practice that has occurred in this very spot thousands of times.
I stand at my sink, my feet planted on the hardwood floors, considering the smallness of my own little life in the context of a century's worth of smiles, trials, aggravations, aspirations, all thoughts being thought in this exact location.
Through space, I feel connected through time— and I feel small in a good way.