Bacon and eggs. Pancakes and maple syrup.

Those were the very first English words I learned as a child. I was probably about six years old. But aromas are so powerful in bringing back memories that I still can smell the salty aroma of bacon when waking up on Sunday mornings, as well as taste the maple syrup I used to lick off my fingers, because you know maple syrup is so much more liquid than honey. I can also picture quite precisely my mother struggling with the “almost ready–made pancake flour” while my father was fussing over the poached eggs. As far as he was concerned, the brunch was never perfect, but for us children it represented the absolute best meal in the world!

My father’s passion for American breakfast came from a yearlong experience he had in New York, during an internship after engineering school in Paris. He had grown up in a very modest family, and he immediately fell in love with this city where everything seemed possible. I would realize much later the reason for these endless evenings in the company of Nat King Cole and Herbie Hancock, the numerous bottles of bourbon in the liquor cabinet, and the yearly visit of the extremely tall and cheerful guy speaking in a loud and incomprehensible language.

My father had tried his best to stay in the United States after his internship. But he had made two inexcusable mistakes: He had never paid his traffic tickets, and he had tried to work illegally. As a result, he ended up on the streets, then in jail, before being forced back onto a plane for France. He was 25 years old, and he never made a single attempt to go back, not even for holidays. His dream was broken.

When I turned 10, my father very proudly announced to me that I had been selected among my classmates to learn German instead of English in middle school. Honestly, I didn’t care. It wasn’t long before the truth struck me. I hated that language. I had to stick with it for seven years and not once went to Germany. I still haven’t. My long–lasting fascination for English led me to learn it almost from scratch, essentially through reading fantasy novels and repeatedly watching the 10 seasons of Friends. A very long process . . .

For my 20th birthday, my boyfriend surprised me with a trip to New York. It was my first travel overseas, and I vividly remember the overwhelming anguish I experienced while waiting for Immigration. “Please wait behind the line!” said the signs. “Where are you staying in New York?” asked the officer. I stammered an unintelligible answer. English was still failing me. The memories of these holidays are a perfect medley of so many images: the tiny apartment of our host and his boyfriend on St. Marks Place, the countless pills they both absorbed three times a day because of their seropositivity, the amazing view at sunset from the World Trade Center, the somber and sinister subway with its old tokens, the long climb to the Statue of Liberty’s crown, the statues buried under snow in MoMA’s courtyard, the ice–cold weather, the endless walks across the city, and the mouthwatering one–dollar hot dogs seasoned with pickles and onions. It was the ’80s and our friend would die one year later from AIDS, tainting these memories with sadness. But overall, I was mesmerized by this city so different from Paris, and I was convinced I would come back quickly.

It took me 30 years to find my way back to New York. I celebrated my 50th birthday in a fancy restaurant in the financial district, among wealthy Americans wearing very ugly Christmas sweaters, and speaking so loudly. My husband had been living in Brooklyn for several months, waiting to be sure before having us move to join him and begin a new life here. I announced my decision to move to New York to my father at Christmas. I was very excited to tell him that I was following in his footsteps, and that his grandson would have a chance to study in an American college. His reaction took me completely aback. “I will be dead when you come back,” he told me, and he meant it. But I left anyway. It was my dream. My family.

Every Sunday, I wait for the smell of bacon to rise, and I join my husband in the kitchen to prepare the pancakes and the eggs. And every time, I imagine that my father is going to join us and finally enjoy an (almost) perfect American breakfast. He’s 83 years old now, and he has difficulty walking. It is unlikely he will come and visit us here. But after a year apart, I call him every Sunday, and he walks me through the memories of his life in New York. I can feel the bond between us strengthen again despite the distance. Now we share this experience, this dream. And I still hope he will come and listen to jazz while drinking bourbon in a jazz club with me.

Eggs and bacon. Maple syrup and pancakes. And so much more.

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Vanina Bousquet arrived in New York City in 2018 and studies at the New York Public Library’s Seward Park branch. She writes, “I was born and raised in Paris. My native language is French, I learned German and Latin, and I can speak a bit of Corsican. Although I am a scientist, photography and writing are also my lifelong passions. I mostly discovered New York through novels, and being able to write in English is an appealing experience. I am very thankful to my teacher, Jean Choi,  whose dedication to teaching adults is inspiring.”