“Minute, papillon!”
Just a minute, butterfly. A dressed up French interjection to be used as a preface to expressing disagreement, or simply as a, “take it easy,” or “give me a minute.”
Or as the French guy in bed charmingly says to you when he wants you to stop talking and let him doze off for a minute (or two). What I couldn’t pry out of that relationship, I reconciled by stowing away this expression, thinking it could make a nice title to something someday.
“Deux minutes, papillon,” I'd say again and again if I could whisper in the ear of my younger self. While the origin of the expression is unknown, (Perhaps from the name of a café server in 20th century Paris, or indeed referencing a butterfly flitting from one flower to the next,"
I imagine the latter. Just as I spent the last four years bouncing off one beautiful thing to the next, all the while, in a great hurry to find the answer, the affection, the relief.
Impulsivity and impatience are classic plagues of a twenty-something; I was certainly not spared. Learning a language, and learning to live with yourself take time. I'm gathering the stories of my frustration and my joy. The moments I needed to take two minutes to breathe to get through long nights and dragging days; the moments I needed to take two minutes to say thank you; to open my eyes wide and try to capture everything about it; and to laugh at the absurdity.
Among these stories, I will share the best of France with you. Welcome to my blog.
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