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classmates were looking at me with something like
astonishment. I dipped my head, worried that I'd
somehow just embarrassed myself; when I looked back up,
Emile was smiling proudly at me, so hard that his eyes
crinkled and turned down at the corners.

On the way home that afternoon, I stopped at my
favorite ptitisserie and held a short, polite conversation
with the smiling, bespectacled girl behind the counter. At
home, I told my host mother all about my day as she
made dinner, smiling into the cassoulet. Now, I couldn't
stop; the language just came bubbling out of me, like
some hidden spring. Thoughts about the people I had left
at home faded; I started to build more solid relationships
with my professors, my classmates, my host family. No
longer was I the observer at the symphony, sitting alone
in the audience; I was an instrumentalist, playing in tune
with the music around me.

The bus hummed its way through the Bensacon
region, bearing us south, to Annecy. The Israelis in the
back of the bus were, for the only time that weekend,
quiet - all asleep, heads tilted at odd angles, mouths
agape, bags slowly sliding out of hands and off thighs to
come to rest on the floor.

I knew better than to sleep through the bus ride. Two
and a half months and two trips with Emile had taught
me better. "Pay attention," he'd said to me, standing in
front of my seat, raising a finger for emphasis even
though his voice was lowered, only reaching me and the
few around me. "The drive is going to be something."

The only noise was the soft rumble of the bus and the
murmured argot between Emile and the bus driver, a few
seats up. I sat, my eyes fixed on the green hills as they

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