In wandering years, parks were portals. In Korea, I would tell myself if I could just hike over the next ridge line, I would be home. As if parks were points of teleportation, all connected to the same grand spirit park. Hampstead Heath in London, Yogogi Park in Tokyo, Lincoln Park in Chicago, Boston Common, Griffith Park, Central Park, even little Marvin Grove in Lawrence, Kansas where my parents would take us on fall Saturdays – all connected. Parc de la Tête d'Or in Lyon was no different. On my first visit, I stayed past dark and thought I was losing my mind when I became frightened by the sounds of wild birds and animals. I didn't yet know that the park contained a zoo – the Jardín zoolólogic de Lyon – so I wondered if it was somehow a close spirit connection of a park in Africa. On my many subsequent visits I would stay late to hear the wildlife welcome the darkness and pretend that I had still not solved the mystery of the zoo.
Elle n’est jamais montée là-haut voir cette chose blanche et molle qui toujours la regarde et la suit, non. Elle ne la voit plus. Elle n’ira pas.