There’s No Toast in Paris

There’s No Toast in Paris

            Jet lag will not suck any precious second I have from Paris.  Internally, I may have repeated that mantra about a million times before the plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport.  Apart from the reading, drooling, and Nutella gorging I participated in on the flight, I was pretty sure that all of that mediocrity was about to be eliminated the minute I placed my neon pink Pumas on French soil.  Anticipation is a fickle bitch.  Sometimes it works out like an upper middle-class childhood Christmas morning.  Other times, well, it’s like an upper middle-class childhood New Year’s Eve with Dick Clark.  For several years, every 30 minutes leading up to the ball drop, I would hope that this would be the year that something magical would happen, some mind-blowing epiphany, or at least some hot guy to kiss.  After all, the people in New York (or at least in Times Square) seemed to receive all of these things and more!  As the airplane taxied to the gate and several passengers made the sign of the Cross, I decided that all those New Year’s Eve “parties” were just a bunch of camera and editing tricks designed to make Mid-Westerners feel bad.  I’m from Michigan, and currently I’m sixty miles away from Paris, and New York can go to hell.

            “Do you need a ride, mademoiselle?”  A short middle-aged Indian man was suddenly beside me.  By the looks of his sympathetic face, I became painfully aware that I was completely unprepared on how to actually get from Charles de Gaulle to downtown Paris. 

            “Ummmm, sure,” I said worse than sheepishly.  I knew this was not one of my more brilliant moves here.  After all, wasn’t it drilled into my head not to talk to strangers, much less accept rides from them?  So, what happens when everyone is a stranger? 

            “My name is Dr. Rahman Patel,” he said calmly.  “I am a cardiologist from Oklahoma City, but I was born and raised in Paris.  I have dual citizenship.”  He spoke this last part proudly and quickly added, “It’s just like the noodle – my first name.” 

            It wasn’t until we were entrenched in the Hertz rent a car lot that I realized what he meant by noodles and names and what an idiot I had turned into.  Rahman had acquired the keys to a Citroën.  Never mind the fact that the brand’s name is too close to the word for lemon, it was clear that this sorry looking car was the only choice available. 

            “Do you know any French?”  He still remained calm even while driving a nearly Flintstone tin can on a bazillion lane expressway into Paris.

            “Un peu,” I said with snarky enthusiasm.  This feeling quickly diminished when his response was rapid French with an Oklahoma accent that was nearly impossible to understand.  I had never heard French spoken like this before, and quickly I was starting to become queasy.  The rolling in my stomach was more than likely the result of lack of sleep, anxiety over signing divorce papers the night before the flight, and realizing that minoring in French in college still does not prepare one to read street signs fast enough to know where the hell to go. 

            Slowly, and with as much concentration as I could muster (because I had to prove to myself that even under dire circumstances I shouldn’t so weakly fall back on English), I asked Rahman, “Avez-vous un petit sac?”  But, this was a rental car and unlike the airplane, there were no neat little bags available to spew into.  So, I chose the smallest bag within reach, my purse. 

            After wiping my mouth with my sleeve, I was grateful that Rahman was as serene as a bodhisattva sitting by a pond.  I mean seriously, here I am hitchhiking to Paris with a French-Indian-American cardiologist, knowing just enough French to get into trouble, and vomiting into my purse like some sort of drunken sorority whore.  What an entrance.  My mom would be so proud. 

            “Are you alright now, Miss?”

            “Yes,” I nodded, forgetting about French altogether.

            Somewhere within the haze of the nerves and the jet lag I found it.  I found a semi-peaceful slight smile curling up on my lips like a cat to a patch of sun.  I don’t care that I sound like a moron when I speak French, and I don’t care that I just threw up in my purse in front of a strange man. 

            “I can’t take you all the way to your hotel because it is too far out of my way from where I live, but I can get you to a taxi station that’s close by.”  After multiple apologies and appreciations, he refused any sign of payment perhaps finding that distasteful from a woman.  Giving me his business card and hailing a cab all at the same time, I realized that not only had I been embarrassing, but rude too. 

            “My name is Emily,” I stammered.  I quickly wrote down my name and number on a piece of paper that he supplied because there was no way I was going to open up my purse to see the second coming of Nutella on the interior.  He smiled gently as he hopped into the lemon car and drove away.  He hadn’t even merged into traffic yet and already I was missing his peaceful demeanor.  But, I had to get to my hotel because I needed to brush my teeth, and buy a new purse, and oh yeah, pass out. 

€

Apparently, Parisian hotel light switches are nothing like American ones.  After five minutes of fumbling and cussing, I finally figured out that the hotel key card also operated the electricity within the room.  Rummaging around piles of luggage, I also discovered that while my purple Oral-B made it safely overseas, the travel-size toothpaste that accompanied it was from ten years ago and had hardened within the tube to the consistency of granite.  I was desperate for fresh breath, so I pried a few minty pebbles into my palm and moistened them as best as I could.  While brushing (if one could call it that), it occurred to me that this vacation was taken more out of a combination of spite and impulsivity rather than in the spirit of rest and relaxation.  Spite because before signing off on my marriage, I had been canned from my mortgage servicing department position due to the “housing crisis,” and mostly, due to other people’s stupidity.  Impulsivity because actually going on the trip that I had bought and paid for already seemed ludicrous considering I “should” be staying close to home, and a phone, and a potential job prospect.  Perhaps, just maybe, karma was exerting her cyclical forces right now during my first few hours in France.  Well, at least my breath wasn’t entirely offensive, and my teeth weren’t furry anymore.

            “I will buy a purse and toothpaste tonight,” I thought out loud to myself as though making yet another mental checklist.  Carefully washing and then placing the puke-covered contents of my first purse on the coffee table to dry, I glanced out the window to see something that made all of this nausea and nerves worthwhile.  In the distance, slightly blurred from the dirt on the window and city pollution, the unmistakable spire of the Eiffel Tower pierced the sky and then my heart.  I laughed and cried all at the same time as I laid down on the humble double bed, and then blackness.

            I’m not sure if it was utter stubbornness or the sick sweet smell of rose perfume that woke me from my cavernous slumber.  My mantra concerning jet lag had obviously failed, and now I may be missing dinner with my tour group.  Yes, it was true that during a moment of weakness (desperation?) after being fired and divorced all within three weeks, I signed up to go to Paris and meet up with a tour group.  Now they assured me at the time that this group would be composed of younger people and everyone on board would also speak English (God, please don’t let me be stuck with a bunch of Americans).  The travel representative also assured me that while I was free to wander about individually, I should really try to stick to my group for “safety and security.”  I wanted no part of either of those two things.  Besides, since I was pretty sure there wasn’t any safety or security left in my life back home, the thought of hanging out with other American touristy sheeple felt positively defeatist.  However, I am not an unfair person.  I should at least give these people a chance because dinner is in thirty minutes (according to my immaculately organized schedule of events), and I am hungry.  Furthermore, I absolutely must leave before my hotel neighbor’s rose bath causes me to throw up again. 

            When it’s mid-July in Paris, it is simply foolish to try and sit inside at a café.  It is equally foolish to tote around a cumbersome backpack as a purse, but having left my vomit-bag in the hall for my rose-drenched neighbor to find, this was my only option. 

            “G,day, you must be Emily! Welcome to the Holidays Away tour group!”  Dumbstruck by the sheer thickness of this man’s Aussie accent, I nodded and performed the perfunctory introduction gestures.  After going through a whirlwind of names and interests/hobbies (and remembering exactly none of them), I took the only seat left in the café.  Sitting somewhere between the inside and outside boundary of the café, I learned that my dinner companion was the only other American in this group.

            “How y’all doin’ t’night?”  Apparently, the look on my face must have suggested that I clearly couldn’t remember him during the “getting to know your neighbor” hazing that just took place.  “The name’s Brian – from Tulsa…”

            Then I remembered.  Of course he was from Tulsa because after all, my big tour group which consisted of Londoners, Aussies, Afrikaners, and French-Canadians (Quebecois, if one is feeling particularly sophisticated) wouldn’t be complete without at least one person from the fanfuckingtastic state of Oklahoma.  “Hi, yes, I’m sorry my mind is elsewhere and I’m famished!  It is nice to meet you.  I’m Emily.”  For a split second, I thought about tagging the words “and I’m an alcoholic” to the end of that awkward greeting, but thought better of it.

            “And, for you mademoiselle?”  The server (no, he was le garçon because that is sexier than “server”) was really French, and not from Oklahoma! 

            I had been waiting for this moment for years, actually, nearly two decades.  Before ordering, I allowed my mind to briefly visit eighth grade French class.  I had earned multiple A pluses, handled irregular verb tenses with ease, and won many “magnifique”s on my pronunciation.  I had even practiced ordering dinner at a French restaurant for a skit I had performed in front of the class, and now my moment had arrived.   “Oui, I would like…no, I mean…Je voudrais…”

            “Git on with it already – I’d like tuh eat sometime this year,” the Oklahoma bonehead interrupted me at one of the most important milestones of my life.  Luckily for him, the cutlery had not been placed on the table yet. 

            “I’ll have the lemon-herb fish,” I said with such sadness that I think the entirety of Paris frowned for a fraction of a second. 

            “Gimme a big ole plate of sketti with plenty of garlic toast.”  Brian looked downright pleased with himself and oblivious to the fact that our garçon was confused about what the hell “sketti” was.  

            “Did you seriously just order s p a g h e t t i for your first meal in Paris?!”  I made sure to sound out the word “spaghetti” slowly and deliberately so le garçon could recognize it.  Before turning back to the kitchen, he gave an almost imperceptible wink and smile for my “translation.”

            “Whut’s wrong with sketti?  I’m hungry fer it.” 

            I couldn’t even bring myself to respond to this scene unfolding before me.  I am sure that my face must have been a true blending of the theatrical comedy/tragedy masks with large amounts of disgust thrown in for good measure. 

            After diving into my fish dish, and not really coming up for air, it wasn’t until I heard Brian’s booming Oklahoma tone that I realized he hadn’t been given his god-damned garlic toast. 

            “Hey there! Waiter! Ummm, yeah…y’all forgot my garlic toast!” 

            The weight of the stares and hushed voices was enough to push me into a semi-permanent slump in my seat.  For a moment, I could’ve easily slid all the way down into the Paris catacombs and eaten my fish with the dead.  They would’ve made better company.

            “So sorry, monsieur,” le garçon said quickly placing a bread basket on our table with eyes averted (I wouldn’t want to look at us either).  The basket before us contained an assortment of real French breads probably baked last night or early this morning while we had been 35,000 feet over the Atlantic.  And while this same type of bread basket was on just about all the tables in the café, it decidedly was NOT garlic toast.

            Before Brian could finish clearing his throat in preparation to throttle le garçon again, I had reached my maximum weight capacity.  “Just stop!  We all know that this bread isn’t the garlic toast you ordered.  We all know that you fancy yourself some loud-mouthed confident man in charge, but (my voice was rising in pitch with every word) in reality you are merely a moron probably overcompensating for a penis the size of a twig and you don’t even know that they don’t eat toast in Paris!” 

            Completely unaware of the people watching my tirade, I left a significant portion of uneaten fish on my plate in my rush to exit the Parisian café from hell.  As I stepped onto the sidewalk, the salty tears stung my eyes like mini sparks flickering up and down my face.  I distinctly heard the sound of clapping.

€

            I am unsure how long I walked in the wrong direction before realizing that my hotel room was the other way.  By this time I had stopped crying and had parked myself on a bench.  Somehow I had missed the sunset and now found myself watching “The City of Light” do just that. 

            “Eet was me who did zee clapping, mademoiselle.” The man’s voice was soft and comforting even though I nearly squeaked from being startled.  Turning around quickly, I was surprised to see it was our garçon. 

            “Oh, hi… garçon…umm..ehhh,” I said blushing, smiling, and deflating all at the same time. 

            “Ehhh, I am Jean-Michele LeMieux, and you missed dessert, non?”

            Ok, I admit it, I was utterly enchanted by this man’s voice, but then again, it could’ve been low blood sugar too.  Damn I’m good at fighting with myself.

            “Yes, I missed dessert, and I’m sure they all had some delicious treat without me, and that’s just fine because I’m NOT going back anywhere near that bonehead.”

            “Zhis group ees gone now, come back with me to ze café, s’il vous plait with many peaches on top, non?”

            Feeling the blush rising like lights coming up in a theater, I chuckled a little.  “You mean cherries on top.”

            “Cherrieeez – peaches—ehh, no matter.” 

            Back at the café, I was relieved to see that, indeed, my tour group had gone, and really there were only a handful of people continuing dinner conversations well into the night as the French are prone to do. 

            “Open your mouth,” he said.

            “What?”

            “Open your mouth,” he repeated as this was the most natural thing in the world to ask a stranger.  Seeing that I wasn’t readily playing this game, he leaned in closer and said, “I can tell you are a woman already unafraid – adventure ees easy for you, non?  Ze problem ees with being lied to – you feel everyzing ees faux, especially ze people around you?”

            Jean-Michele’s assessment was both uncanny and uncalled for, but he was right.  Paris shouldn’t be treated like a chore to get done, no it should be…

            “Open your mouth – try zhis.”

            Cool pear ice cream mixed with warm brandied pears in dark chocolate drizzle filled my mouth, and suddenly finding purses and toothbrushes meant nothing.  I no longer felt stressed about throwing up in front of Rahman, and I no longer cared about bonehead Brian.  Actually, I was even starting to feel goodwill towards the state of Oklahoma again.

            “Sweet Christ,” I whispered. 

€

            Seduction via pear crème glacée is something both liberating and ridiculous.  Something my now ex-husband would never think of doing, and I highly recommend it.  Watching Jean-Michele sleep in my bed with his body bowed out into a permanent letter C was deeply satisfying and irksome at the same time. 

            “You have to go,” I purred while fumbling for a lamp switch.

            “What ees wrong, I not make you happy, Emilié?” 

            Somewhere between changing my mind and having another round of wicked hot sex, and throwing Jean-Michele out on his perky French ass, it occurred to me that no one could make me happy at that moment.  All the sex and food in France could not cure me of me. 

            Sensing my internal agitation, he methodically got dressed and then paused.  “You are overzhinking zhings.  Your nerves – zhey are setting mine off too – breathe.” Smiling in that warm peaceful way that Dr. Patel did, he added, “Maybe you come back to ze café for breakfast and I feed you…ehhh…how do you say…pain perdu…non, French toast.”

            I hung on the word “toast” in all of its absurdity and glory, and as for breathing, well with every inhalation the notes of fuck musk and rose perfume became increasingly empowering and calming (if that can even be a combination).  “Maybe,” I said feeling smug and hyper aware of being at once polite, professional, and naked. 

            “You are très belle, and I will show you ze reeel Paris ahftear breakfast.  Zhis ees good, non?”  Not waiting for my reply, he kissed my cheek with a soft sliver of lips, and slipped out the door as quietly as a bank robber on Labor Day.  I was pretty sure that I would not be seeing Jean-Michele again.

            After facing the mint pellets in the bathroom again, I decided to quickly throw on some clothes and hunt down fresh toothpaste.  While it was irritating to carry around a backpack everywhere, I could get by; however, not having proper toothpaste was a deal-breaker.  I thought I might check with the hotel lobby night receptionist, that is, if I could find one.  

            It was late, but not ungodly so.  Finally, after trying not to look too harried, an impeccably dressed woman sauntered over from a back room and immediately sensed my American tourist status like mosquitos to warm, wet carbon dioxide.  

            “Ehhh, yes, how may I ‘elp you?”

            Her English was excellent, but I had made up my mind nearly 24 hours ago that I would try to speak French as much as possible because above all else, I craved an authentic experience.  Besides, I noticed that when I at least attempted their language, a momentary kindness draped over the person like the real linens on the outside café tabletops.  

            “J'ai oublié mon dentifrice…” I was beaming on the inside knowing that I was making a whole string of past French teachers undeniably proud.

            “I’m sorry miss,” she didn’t even allow me to finish asking for it, “Zhere ees a chemist one street over and on ze corner.”  

            I had already started moving to the exit when I shrugged my shoulders, “Merci.”

€

            By the time I returned to my room, now totally soaked in rose, it was close to midnight.  Parisians were already starting to celebrate Bastille Day which was technically in a few minutes.  Looking at my drugstore purchases, I realized that I was lucky the shop was still open.  But hey, Paris is a big city and people need toothpaste, drugs, and condoms at all hours of the day just like in America.  Satisfied with myself for completing my shopping “tasks” without using one English word, I understood that the real Paris I was so desperate to experience had been happening this whole time.

            Peeling off my suitcase wardrobe for the second time tonight, I briefly glanced at the schedule of events for tomorrow, and then, promptly threw it away.  Content that Bastille Day is nowhere near New Year’s Eve, I leaned back on my bed like a Buddha in the shade, or a lion in the sun.