THE FAREWELL TOUR by Wendy Schuman
When a rock group announces a farewell tour, it generally means that fans will get one last chance to see their favorite band perform their greatest hits before they retire. But for the unfamous like me, a farewell tour has to do with visiting people and places I’ve loved one last time. Because I might not get a chance to see them again.
Sixty years ago in 1966, when I was 19, I arrived in the city of Nantes, France, with a guitar and a suitcase. Along with 15 other American college students on the Experiment in International Living, I was to meet the French family who would host me for the summer.
Myette, the oldest of three girls, was my age. She stood a foot shorter than my almost 6-foot height, so she stood on tiptoe to give me the traditional two kisses. “Je suis ta sœur française,” she introduced herself with a smile. And we were much like sisters after that.
My French improved because no one in the family spoke English. In the mornings, when Myette and her sisters were at school (their school year was a lot longer than ours), I would accompany her maman to the market. I’ll never forget the skinned rabbit that stayed in the ice box for a day, legs sticking straight up. The rabbit stew was delicious, but the vision of those legs stayed with me for a long time.
After a month with our families, our group of French and American teens toured the country, staying in campgrounds where possible. We learned one others’ pop songs and built relationships. Little did I realize that my friendship with Myette would last a lifetime.
We stayed in touch by mail (and later email and Whatsapp) and got together four more times in person—in France, Prague, and once in New York City. Our lives paralleled each other’s in many ways. We both have long, happy marriages—hers to Hoat Nguyen, a great guy who emigrated from Vietnam, mine to Ken, a great guy who made every effort to stay out of Vietnam. We each had two children and now have four grandchildren. We both retired from fulfilling careers—she as a nurse and I as an editor—and we both had responsibility for our elderly mothers.
My husband and I went to Paris a couple of weeks ago with the added purpose of returning to Nantes. As Myette and I are almost 80 and our husbands are 82, this was a bittersweet reunion. Despite the record heat wave (and lack of air conditioning), we made the most of our time together. Myette made wonderful meals of specialties of the region (no rabbit!), and we sat in her beautiful garden and talked. About our lives, our children and grandkids, our hopes and fears--the concern that the international exchange programs that enabled our friendship are being erased by the current climate of xenophobia.
As we left each other at the train station, we wept. Later I got an email from Myette, translated here with the help of Google.
“We spent such wonderful, unforgettable times with you, Wendy. I wish it could have lasted. Despite the distance and the few times we’ve actually met, I feel we are very close and see life the same way. It felt like we’d never been apart. I was also happy that Ken and Hoat got along so well; even though language barriers made communication tricky, do we really need words to see that we’re on the same wavelength? I was so sad at the station. I hope we see each other again.”
Maybe as with the Rolling Stones, The Eagles, and Cher, our farewell tour won’t prove to be the final one.
