It’s the summer of 1986 and for whatever reason, Christie Ross is going to some French language camp and wants me to go with her. Two weeks in Minnesota. I begged, cajoled, and stomped my feet until parents gave me paid for my plane ticket and camp expenses.
Lac du Bois was a total French immersion camp in Minnesota. It remains one of the most beautiful places in my memory. The beach, the rows of silver canoes, the long dock where we set the guillotine –beautiful place. There were no showers, just a dry sauna and instructions to bring biodegradable shampoo and soap. The store sold only European candies and chocolates, and since the food in the café sucked, I lived on Toblerone and something we called “fruities”; long and flat like sticks of gum, “fruities” tasted like a more subtle Starburst.
The next summer, I came back for month and fell in love with Jean Marc, a camp counselor. It sounds so cliché-he was young, French, so excited to be alive, so kind…and not in a pervvy way. The accent-the kisses (just on the cheeks)-the swear words he taught us (the only phrases I still remember with confidence). He was beautiful!
And what I absolutely love about the memory of being in love with Jean Marc is that I didn’t care. I didn’t care that he knew, I didn’t care that everyone else knew, I didn’t care that he didn’t feel the same way. I wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed because it was no big deal. Why did that have to change? And where can find Jean Marc? :)
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