Guest Opinion: When songs and kisses brightened the world awhile Guest Opinion: When songs and kisses brightened the world awhile (October 12, 2005)

by Barbara Leeds

My new French friends kissed me on both cheeks. At first I was self-conscious. I was surprised that this small contact, smaller than an American hug, felt so intimate.

I said, "Je veux parler franais." ("I want to speak French.") I added that my French was imperfect, but I hoped they would understand me.

This was in August, during a 10-day Sister Cities cultural exchange between my own choir, the Aurora Singers of Palo Alto, and La Chorale Assou-LŽzert from Albi, France. I spoke French, French, and more French -- even though we never left California. At Filoli Gardens, I named the flowers: les fleurs blancs, les fleurs jaunes, les fleurs rouges, les fleurs bleus (white flowers, yellow flowers, red flowers, blue flowers).

At the Baylands, I named the birds: les oiseaux noirs, les oiseaux gris, les oiseaux blancs avec les grandes bouches (black birds, gray birds, white birds with big mouths).

At Foothills Park, I warned people not to touch the poison oak: "Ne le touchez pas!" When we sang "Chevaliers de la Table Ronde," a French drinking song, I was the only one who knew all the words. Claudette told me that my French was improving; I was becoming more fluid. Delighted, I announced, "Je suis fluide! Je suis fluide!"

Anyone I didn't recognize, I spoke to in French. In search of a bathroom, I told a helpful-looking stranger, "Je cherche la toilette." He responded, "I don't speak French." So I said, "Il faut laver les mains." ("I need to wash my hands.") I just couldn't find my English.

Jacqueline, traveling with her granddaughter, told me the girl suffered from motion sickness. I told them about my bracelets avec des boutons. Jacqueline bought a pair of these pressure-point wristbands, and her granddaughter spent the rest of the trip in comfort.

On the bus for the San Francisco excursion, I had a long and wonderful conversation with Isabelle. Back in Palo Alto, I told her I felt connected to her and wanted to hug like Americans. She was a good sport, but I could feel her discomfort. The next time we met, we kissed each other's cheeks.

My only difficulty speaking French was at the Exploratorium: I couldn't explain the exhibits in French because I didn't understand them in English. But when I knew what I was talking about, I could communicate. I spoke French, and the French people understood me.

The high point of the visit was our concert: the Americans sang, the French sang, then we all sang -- to an overflow crowd at Stanford Memorial Church. We concluded with "Canticorum Jubilo" ("I Sing in Jubilation"), which is exactly what I was doing, and "Quand on n'a que l'amour" ("When We Only Have Love").

Its final verse means: "When we have nothing but the force of love, we will have in our hands, my friends, the entire world."

There was so much amour in the church; even mistakes were handled with grace. Recognizing a problem during a piano introduction, the French director smiled, walked to the piano, kissed the pianist on both cheeks, and returned to the podium. The pianist began again, this time playing a different song.

The sweetest moment came when the French singers were joined by their children, each holding flags of both countries.

After the concert, state Sen. Joe Simitian spoke to the combined choirs. He said that he represents 900,000 Californians -- and his only regret was that more of them were not able to attend our concert.

Mentioning the starting-over incident, he commented, "How can you not love people who solve their problems with kisses?"

Because our choir president had to leave the farewell soirŽe early, I ended up giving the speech I had helped her write. I stood in front of 150 people and said, in two languages, "Together, we have had a wonderful time these last ten days. Now you are leaving our country, but not our hearts."

Later that evening, when the Aurora Singers were asked to stand, the French singer on my right grabbed my hand, held it high, and stood with me. Then when the French chorale was asked to stand, she pulled me up alongside her, explaining, "Nous sommes les mmes." ("We are the same.")

The next day I went to see them off. As I kissed French cheeks, I said, "Votre visite a touchŽ mon coeur." ("Your visit touched my heart.") I even climbed on the bus, exclaiming that I was going with them.

A few minutes later, after I got off, I saw a little boy sobbing. Someone said this 10-year-old American boy was in love with one of the French girls; all the French girls had kissed him, but the day she kissed him was the best day of his life. With tears running down my face, I gently touched my lips to the wet cheeks of this child.

Then the bus pulled out. We hung around for a while, then gradually drifted away, until there were just three of us. We each declared several times why we needed to leave, what important thing we had to do. But we just stood there. Finally, we kissed each other's cheeks. Then we got into our separate cars and drove back to the world.

Barbara Leeds is an award-winning author of "Fairy Tale Rap: Jack and the Beanstalk and Other Stories," and writes poems for special occasions. She lives in Mountain View and can be e-mailed at barbaraleeds@yahoo.com.

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