a whisper of those so-called “producers,” not to mention the young woman they had with them . . .
California, still Democratic . . .
My dear Marc-Antoine, this city of mine, Los Angeles, is a mosaic of little stories like this. I could go on forever. I still haven’t written an “American novel,” though my French publisher would like me to. Maybe I never will. Because the freedom I enjoy here brings me more peace of mind than inspiration. But I also find it increasingly stifling, which comes from the political atmosphere in the country as a whole. I’ve lived through the presidencies of George W. Bush and Barack Obama, each of whom occupied the White House for two successive terms before Donald Trump came to power. I could just have rejoiced in the privilege of living in California, a state that votes overwhelmingly for the Democratic Party in the primaries: over 60 percent for Hillary Clinton in the 2016 election, with a peak of 85 percent in a city like San Francisco . . . So I completely understand that some Californians, recognizing the danger of an America folded in on itself, as envisaged by the current powers that be, favor a veritable “Calexit.” But, my dear friend, I am keeping my head here, because it would be easier to pass an elephant through the eye of a needle than to obtain independence for California. In the absence of such a step, we are witnessing a wave of protests in Los Angeles, but also in most large cities in the country, particularly in Chicago and New York, with the motto “Not My President.” And the presidential decree on immigration is seen here as a backward step and a denial of the tradition of hospitality that is special to Los Angeles, the whole of California, and indeed a nation that rose to greatness thanks to the support of migrants.
For my own part, I need hardly say that my door will always be open to you, and that next time we really must make sure we’re in tune, so we don’t miss one another again.
Till we meet, then, and with good wishes,
A.
FROM CHICAGO TO NEW ORLEANS
By
Philippe Besson
Translated by
Sandra Smith
Idon’t exactly know which of us had the idea. But I think that it was S. who first said: “We could travel across America by car.” I believe he was thinking of taking Route 66, which runs from Chicago to Santa Monica. Romantic pipe dreams seem to last forever. I objected at once (I am undoubtedly not romantic enough, or quite simply I’ve gotten too old): “You have no idea how exhausting that would be; let’s find a shorter route.” But I do remember that I liked the idea of starting in Illinois.
Chicago: my first encounter with the United States. That was twenty-five years ago. I’d gone to visit a French friend who had settled down there, doing odd jobs to earn a living and hoping one day to work in the movies (he should have chosen LA, and even in LA, his chances would have been minuscule). He lived in a tiny apartment in the Loop, next to an elevated subway line. His windows shook when the train went by. The screeching of the wheels was shrill to my ears. Those first few days, it took me hours to fall asleep, despite the jet lag. And what’s more, the city was having a horrible heat wave. The temperature was over one hundred degrees every day. On television, they even went so far as asking people not to use their ovens. That shocked me.
In short, I thought it would be good to go back there for the first time in a quarter of a century. Even if it’s always a little strange to confront your memories with reality. Dangerous too.
Suddenly I remember: S. came back with: “In that case, let’s drive from north to south, starting from the Midwest and finishing in the Deep South.” “Agreed,” I said. Without hesitating. Without thinking about it. Here we go.
But first, we had to get into the country. That meant an eight-hour flight and getting through border security at the airport. S. and I went up together to the official, a poker-faced young man who immediately looked at us suspiciously for a long time. I want to believe that neither our sexual orientation (presumed) nor the age difference between us (obvious) was the cause of that look; that it was, in fact, simply an occupational hazard. But then, the verdict was delivered: I was allowed into the United States with no more red tape. But S. was instructed to report to the Immigration Office for questioning. It was pointless to ask why this difference in our treatment: S. has a last name that sounds Arabic, I don’t. I muse on the fact that the terrorists have won. They have transformed some people into suspects and made others suspicious. At Immigration and Customs, all you need to do is look at the people waiting to go through in-depth interrogation to confirm this: they all look more or less alike.
One hour and a dose of humiliation later, we climb into a taxi. During the ride, images from my first stay come back to me. The first one is a memory from the banks of Lake Michigan: a lake so vast that I thought I was at the edge of the sea as I basked on the beach. And when I turned around to look behind me, I saw a row of tall, elegant buildings. I also remember, but less clearly, Grant Park: its green grass, so very green that it looked almost artificial, especially under the burning, harsh sunlight.
But reality puts an end to my daydreams: on the radio, they are talking about Donald Trump, who is celebrating his first six months in the White House. Celebrating is, in fact, quite a grand word, since almost everyone watching him agrees that his track record is extraordinarily limited. Not a single law voted on. Decrees rejected. International agreements condemned. Backtracking, disappointments, defeats. A low popularity rate. He alone bellows out improbable victories through tweets that become more and more surreal—nearly a thousand of them since he took office! The driver, who is surreptitiously looking at us in his rearview mirror, calls out: “He cracks me up; what do you think?” We smile without replying, not sure we can tell which side he’s leaning toward and too tired to get into a political debate.
We also know that the outrageous White House Press Secretary, Sean Spicer, has just resigned. He must no longer have gotten away with saying everything and then the opposite, giving opinions while being sure of nothing, being refuted after having been encouraged, defending the indefensible, relentlessly attacking journalists, the very same people who sat opposite him in the press briefing room. We’re almost relieved for him.
We drop our bags off at an apartment we’ve rented in the River North neighborhood, at the intersection of Orleans Street and Oak Street, before heading out almost immediately to take in the city. One look and I can see that it has changed since I was young: more skyscrapers have sprung up; architectural innovations have produced a few spectacular examples, some fantastic, some quirky, with rooftop gardens just about everywhere, former factories now housing lofts. In short, I have (undoubtedly) aged, and Chicago has rejuvenated.
I also notice that the police presence has heightened to bring back a sense of security that had lapsed for a while. In the past, crime movies were filmed here: now, it’s mainly romantic comedies or science fiction movies because, in both cases, the setting is appropriate.
The Sears Tower has been renamed: it’s now called the Willis Tower and can no longer proudly proclaim to be the tallest building in America. As for Grant Park, it now connects with Millennium Park, which houses contemporary works of art, such as the famous Cloud Gate, an enormous, mirror-like sculpture made of stainless steel, designed by Anish Kapoor, that looks more like a giant bean than the door to the clouds that I imagined.
Nevertheless, Chicago has not changed completely from top to bottom: it remains the vibrant, cosmopolitan city I once knew. The multicultural neighborhoods are still there, the subway lines still produce a formidable racket above our heads along the rusty metal tracks, and the license plates on the cars continue to remind us that this is truly “the Land of Lincoln.” Culture is visible everywhere, including on the backs of buses, where
