About fourteen years ago my French in-laws took my four-year-old daughter Florence and me on a trip to New York. They did not speak English, so I greeted my first visit to New York in the guise of a tour guide.

Even though I had grown up as a city girl in Detroit, the vagaries of reverse immigration meant that my Franco-American family was then diversifying the small town where we lived outside Madison, Wisconsin with my mother. The allure of the Big Apple’s museums like the Metropolitan, the fashionably dressed people, and bookstores galore made my head spin after living for two years in cow-chip throwing contest territory. I told my in-laws that, as in Paris, buses were the most fun and economical way to sightsee. So, we bought bus passes and used them to go from the World Trade Center to the Cloisters.

The Cloisters Museum literally houses medieval French abbey courtyards. I was gearing up for after-visit discussion:

“The Americans should really return what’s French to the French!”

To which I had my reply ready:

“Sure, we’ll do that once the French return all the Louvre’s Egyptian antiquities to Egypt.”

We still had not made it to the Cloisters and were enjoying riding along as city folks on the bus. As we headed through Harlem, the race composition of the bus occupants changed. My high-pitched voiced daughter asked, “Mom, why are so many Black people on the bus?”

Fortunately, my Detroit-repartee brain had been working out for après-visite to the Cloisters. I smiled at my daughter and said in the flattest voice I could achieve, “Because we’re not in Wisconsin anymore.”

Florence was satisfied with this answer and started laughing along with every occupant of the bus except my clueless in-laws. I had to explain the joke in French, which made the bus occupants laugh and comment along the lines of:

“That’s right. We’re not in Wisconsin, and Harlem sure as hell ain’t Kansas!”

Of course, I kept cracking up as people made these remarks, which made Florence laugh. My in-laws asked what was so funny, requiring more translation and explanation. When the bus occupants could see that I could speak French, I became the instant interpreter albeit probably an imperfect one. The bus occupants’ good-bye phrase soon became, “I’m off to see the Mage d’Oz.”

I hated to see our stop for the Cloisters come up. That day speaking French made me the Wiz or the Mage d’Oz; I didn’t care if I ever clicked my red shoes together get back to Wisconsin or not!