France captures the imagination and the heart. She is a country of romance, of beautiful cathedrals and chateaux, of cafés and cheese and wine and bread and madeleines and macaroons, and shit. That’s right - shit, poop, merde, whatever you want to call it - feces, proudly planted in the middle of the road or on the sidewalk, smeared across the cobblestones… vernacular architecture declaring, “Vive la France, merde!” All over this beautiful country, one observes people stopping abruptly before such a pile, someone grabbing a friend’s arm to prevent him or her from stepping in a wet little tower, strange dances as a person sees it mid-step and is obliged to perform acrobatics to avoid the offensive material. One would think that dog owners would train their pets to at least do their business on the side of the road… but no. It almost seems to be a sense of pride - “Oui, my dog shat in front of your house. Et alors?”
We had our own, personal poop two feet from our door this week. It greeted me as I opened the door Monday morning, a light brown, particularly squishy and wet-looking mound. It was still there to say good evening later in the day despite the torrential rain. The next day, like a melting snowman, it uttered a weak, “Bonjour” from a still recognizable, yet receding lump. This morning, the rain had reduced it to tan smears across the pavement. Soon, all traces will be gone, its existence swept into the sands of time. People will walk, drive, and bike over it, never knowing it was there. I don’t know why I feel so philosophical about this particular shit. It came into my life so prominently, defiantly, and then it was gone. I wonder about this poop. I wonder about the dog, I wonder about the owner who left it right by our doorstep and I wonder how it is possible to have a country with so much charm and culture and history, with so much shit.
