Into the Rainbows It was a bumpy ride in the back of the Peugeot pickup, its rakes, hoes, and shovels banging up against the rusting sides and bags of stinky fertiliser. Joy and I had taken the train from Gare St. Lazare to Giverny from Paris. We delighted in the Rouen bound ride, taking window seats across from each other to relish fields of sunflowers, leggy geraniums at sills, even a backyard wedding with bride and groom waving at the passing train in a sticky July. In the pickup, we had no fear of the three men, all in green jumpsuits, sharing the truck bed with us. The gardeners, PRDM stamped on their shirt pockets, seemed a bit young for hard work. They kept their eyes nervously but politely averted, except the carrot top puffing on one of those lavender gold-tipped cigarettes instead of an expected Gauloise, who seemed weirdly fascinated with my Tiva rainbow hiking sandals. I was wearing them for the first time since I bought them two weeks earlier from a vendor at San Francisco’s Pride March, stamped with ‘It Will Get Better’ across the back strap. We would later discover these young men were from the Programme de Resocialisation des Détenus Mineurs that France’s detention centres require for older juvenile offenders. Earlier, we had stopped at a small brasserie near the Vernon depot to share a ham and cheese croissant and café au lait, thumbed through our ‘Poor Gal’s Paris & Beyond’, and decided to forego a taxi or bus for a hike along the old railway path to make our way to Monet’s gardens. When the trail suddenly came to an end, we dashed through the weeds toward the sound of a truck rumbling near and flagged it down. Fortunately, Joy was fluent in French and the driver found her Swiss accent and tale of being lost charming and gave us a lift. I heard her say my name, Adelaide, to him; but she didn’t tell me at the time he asked if I were ‘irlandais’, my auburn pixie reminding him of folk where he grew up in Dublin. The young workers passed a small canteen to us they shared, which wasn’t the anticipated water thirst quencher, not even a surprise of wine. Seems the French, unbeknownst to us, were fond of an afternoon whiskey. Not wanting to seem ungrateful or unfriendly, we took some, coughing to their amusement on our sips.
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Inside Monet’s home, I felt l mirror where he must have his Japanese prints reflectin slightly tipsy, I wished I coul time to him, smooth his tou straighten his shirt over his with age, watch him pad thr as sunflowers to lift a brush canvases and paint big with
Outside, stretched out on th the cooling canopy of a will the seafoam sky, we kicked watched dragonflies flirt flo edge as a boy from the truc from around the lily pads w net, occasionally glancing o
We cat napped, and when w my rainbow sandals missing budget for that month’s spl now having to buy shoes in out our thumbs to hitch a ri Like kismet, the Peugeot pu only the driver and red-head We hopped into the back o canteen in the corner.
In a second-hand store in th lacing up a pair of espadrille and whispered, ‘Look out th
And there they were – the m boy’s senior, dressed in flash lad in a boho skirt with a flir
‘Look again,’ she said a bit r And there he was, pointing shoes. ‘Oh, well, and there la différence – and into the
By Andrena Zawinski. Andre appeared or is forthcoming ‘Unlikely Stories’, ‘Summer S Paper’, ‘Panoplyzine’, ‘Bene Stories & Poems Weekly’, ‘Oye Drum’, ‘Sabr’ and ‘Loud appeal to the LGBTQ+ com part. She has three full poe collections in print. Born and she is a veteran teacher of who has made her home th from where she runs a Wome as Features editor for NJ-bas
