I guess it started
on the canal at three am, just down the road from the train stop in Rue
Blancht. It was days after I had met Miranda at the hostel, an illustrator from
New York, well, originally from Berkley now residing in Brooklyn. We ate great
dinners in the places of Paris where I thought I always wanted to be; yet they made
me feel like I was doing everything an American would do. We had conversations
that left me excited, and in a state of confusion. By already being in Rome for
four weeks studying, and now a few days in Paris I had come to the conclusion
that people often lose themselves in the freedom of travel, and they let go of their
walls. People say, and often times do whatever the hell they want to, because
of the lack of judgment.
But Miranda was
gone at this point. We were out till the birds were chirping the night before.
We had met an Aussie man, and a young woman from Los Angeles. Having a
California girl bond she was hanging out with the young woman tonight, so I was
on my own. I had gone up to the rooftop bar at the hostel, and was approached
by a few guys, one from Australia, a New Yorker, and another from Naples,
Italy. They asked what I was doing that night, which was nothing and we agreed
to meet up later that evening.
I thought we
should do what the locals do. I had been down the canal enough nights that I
thought I figured it out. The local Parisians buy a few bottles of whatever
remedy with a pack of bones, and they sit and talk and laugh and enjoy life on
the canal under the Parisian moon in their city of supposed love.
The guys were game
because I really sold them on the fact that I thought it was the way to meet
Parisian French girls. They followed my lead down to the liquor store, and to
the canal. We walked, and tried to talk to a few Spanish girls, but they seemed
annoyed. We plodded on and bought more wine to loosen the gears and break down
the initial interaction. Then seemingly out of nowhere these Jamaican guys, and
some French girls stopped us. We sat and joined in. Everyone seemed to know
enough English, and as long as us native English speakers slowed down our
speech, nothing was too difficult to convey.
A few hours went
by, and I had lost my group of fellow traveling men, and I was falling into the
green eyes of a Parisian girl originally from Morocco. She spoke perfect
English, and rolled the most beautiful cigarettes. We spoke of where we were from,
and what we wanted in life. Although, in passing she liberated her age to me, she
was seventeen. I was instantly shocked, and taken back. Her friends wanted to
leave, and it was just now getting to be about three am, so we split off and
went our ways.
I started walking
up the canal towards the hostel when I was stopped by one of the Jamaicans. He
handed me his bottle of wine so I took a hit and we kept walking. Apparently we
were headed the same direction. Right before the bridge I had to cross there
was an older shorter man, and three young women. The Jamaican man said
something to the group in French. Suddenly as long as it took me to look up
from the smoke I was lighting the Jamaican man had tossed off his backpack, and
the French man had stood up and taken off his belt. I backed away, and they
started yelling in French mixed with English about something, which I didn’t
understand. I had drunk too much wine to really want to figure it all out. But
I felt an odd responsibility to bring a halt to the certain silly madness, so I
ran up to my Jamaican drinking buddy and hugged him from behind keeping him
from destroying the much smaller French man. I spoke into his ear loud enough
for him to hear, but not loud enough for the older French man to hear.
“Listen big guy,
you don’t want to wreck this old fool, because you know when the cops show up
who they’ll go after first.” I said.
“Fuck this guy
mahn, he no mahn.”
“That’s beside the
point, you want trouble? You think this bitch is worth it?”
“Maybe you’re
right.” He said.
“I know I’m right
motherfucker, now grab your bag and just get out of here before you hurt this
son of a bitch.”
“You be here
tomorrow friend?”
“Yeah yeah, I’ll
see you tomorrow.”
“Okay, I’ll go
now.”
He picked up his bag and did what I
said, and the older French man nodded at me. I said sorry to the girls, they
were sitting down and so I knelt to get to eye level.
“Listen, I just
met that guy, and we were just walking back the same way.”
“He not your friend?”
One of the French girls asked. She had a short 90s hair cut with a Marlboro in
her hand; she took a drag and exhaled through her nose.
“No, no, not my
friend, I’m American, and I want to meet local Parisians, may I sit with you?”
“Do
you like whiskey?” One of the other girls said, she had those smoky French eyes
you always hear of.
I sat next to the
girl with the 90s hair cut, she had a wide beautiful smile, she was gorgeous.
She was one of those beauties that you don’t recognize at first then after five
minutes of talking you can’t break away, and you don’t want to. They all
introduced themselves; it was Juliette with black hair, Sonya with the smoky
eyes, Sabastian (the older man who’s ass I saved), and Ilka with the beauty I
couldn’t understand.
“Where are you
from in America?” She asked.
“I’m from Seattle,
I just studied in Rome, and now here to see your city.”
“What you study in
Seattle?”
“I study writing.
But I want to work in film, so LA soon.”
“Aaaah California,
Seattle, you are so lucky.”
“Yeah, I don’t
know, have you seen your city?”
“Yes, Paris is
beautiful, but I live here forever, and people are sick here, nobody good.”
“Really? That
can’t be true. You and your friends are nice.”
“Yes we the only
good Parisians!”
They all laughed,
and we played music on little portable speakers, and drank more wine, and
whiskey and time just went by without notice. At five am it started pouring
down rain. We all ran to the nearest tree, and hid underneath. Juliette ran
into the crazy random storm and hailed a cab.
“You want to come
with us?” Ilka asked looking up at me.
“Yes, yeah of
course.” I said.
She smiled at me and grabbed my
hand. There were only four seats in the cab so the older French man was left
out in the storm. I felt bad, and asked how they knew the guy.
“He just walk up
like you, but he old, and kind of weird.”
“Ah all right, got
it.”
We arrived at
Ilka’s, well it wasn’t Ilka’s necessarily it was her wealthy godmother’s
apartment in old Paris, old gorgeous Hemingway Paris. We went up four stories
and opened the door and I nearly fell over in the doorway. It was one of those
places that I had always pictured. It
was that stereotypical Parisian apartment: spiral staircase, art studio,
classic paintings covering every inch, ashtrays on every flat surface. Ilka’s
godmother was at her country home for most of the summer. Ilka’s parents were
in Spain for a good while living in a house there, and a family from Spain was
living at her house here in Paris. So Ilka had to stay at her godmother’s place.
Not a bad situation given the circumstances.
We all listened to
some music and laughed, and talked more. They wanted to know about America, and
I wanted to know about France. Eventually Juliette, and Sonya left, and it was
just Ilka and I in the apartment carved out of a dream. She looked at me with
her eyes beautiful as the moon on a crisp night.
“Sleep now,
American boy?”
“Yes, please.” I
replied.
I turned over from
my back onto my shoulder, and she was having another smoke lying on her side,
hand in her already messy hair.
“What’s your
dream?” I asked her.
“My dream?”
“What do you want
to do?”
“For work, or
life?”
“Aren’t they
pretty much the same thing?”
“I want to help
people, all over the world. No matter the color or religion. Travel to
different places, and work in law or foundations, but it’s just a dream. How
about you Mr. American?” She said.
“That’s beautiful.
I want to make movies, I want to make money, I want to tell stories that make
people feel, and get paid for it. But it’s just a dream.”
“That’s beautiful
too, money and movies.” Ilka said.
The next day I
checked out of my hostel. We went to the clubs every night or the canal, and
drank more whiskey, and wine. During the day all she wanted to was lay around
and watch movies, and eat crepes and paninis. There was a movie store down the
road so I went and bought my favorite old American films such as: Rebel Without a Cause, Bullitt, and The Get Away.
After watching The Get Away, I looked at Ilka who was lying
on my arm as we kicked up our feet on the couch. She flicked her cigarette in
the ashtray on the coffee table.
“Okay I’ll be
Steve McQueen, and you be Ali MacGraw, and we will run away together. Spain, or
Italy, maybe Portugal?”
“Yes sounds almost
perfect, or you and me can kick my godmother out back to her country home when
she arrives here, and we just live here forever.”
“Oh right, we’ll
just leave to get your Marlboros, and my Lucky Strikes, and coffee, paninis,
and movies.” I said smiling into her eyes.
“Easy life,
perfect life.”
Then she hugged me
while lying there on the couch. Then backed away, and looked right into me.
“I want to be
really with you, I don’t want you to leave back to Seattle, I want to go to
Seattle too. I have a boyfriend for one year, and never feel close to this. How
do I have this sensation, this thing that makes me feel?” She said.
“Jesus I wish I
knew, I don’t know, but I think we can only focus on the now. Right here and
now. Let’s go do something, let’s go to the Eiffel Tower, we can lay in the
grass and drink Rosé.”
“Oh you so
American, but it is a beautiful day. For you I will be a tourist.”
We went to the
Eiffel Tower, and sprawled out in the grass and didn’t talk much. I took photos
of her making faces, and posing all sexy. It was perfect, and the breeze
rounded and the gentle Parisian sun shined. I had a thought there lying with
her in the grass that I could’ve died right there without a worry in the world.
If the world just turned off I’d be okay, we’d be okay. Then my mind began to
wander more, thinking how did something like this happen, and how could I meet
her here.
“You believe in
God?” I asked.
“What kind of
question is that?”
“Well I don’t
know, like any other question, do you think he’s up there?”
“I don’t know, I
don’t think so. I think God is in people, some people, good people. Maybe God
is in you, maybe God is in my father, or maybe God was in James Dean.” She
said.
“Hahaha, God
definitely was in James Dean. But, really, you think there is a plan, you think
things or you meet people for a reason?”
“Oh you mean you
met me for a reason, that I met you for a reason?”
“Sure.”
“Maybe, but God
only knows.” She said with a laugh shooting her smile up to the cloudless sky.
“You’re funny,
comedian, really funny.” I said.
The days went by,
and it truly felt like love. I think it was the first time I ever felt that, or
thought about it towards someone else, at least the damn notion. Maybe it was
because I was leaving soon, and we could be as close as we dared. On the way
back to her place we sat on the subway and she leaned her head on my shoulder.
I put an ear-bud in her left ear, and one in my right and we listened to old
soulful music. Sam Cooke was her favorite so we listened to, Send Me, over and over again with the
passing stations rolling by. I thought nobody in the whole Goddamn world will
ever believe me, and if they actually did by some insane chance they’ll never
really know how it was.
My last day came
up far too soon. When I woke up she was smoking a cigarette with her legs
crossed and looking at me with those big gorgeous eyes. I could have cried
right then and there if I could’ve let go of some pride. I left early like I always
do. Ilka called a cab, and it showed up fifteen minutes later. I kissed her
long, and wanted to forever. She put the side of her face in my chest, and I
could feel her gently crying.
“I’ll see you
again, you’ll see me again. We’re young, and smart.”
I didn’t have real words. I
couldn’t believe it. I came to Europe with the mindset of avenging a supposed
love lost back home, I wanted to sleep, and mess around with as many women as
possible. Although, when it came down to it some 5’3 cute, weird, messy haired
girl from Bastille living at her Godmother’s apartment carved out of a dream
made me lose my mind in a place completely foreign to any dream I could dream.
“Goodbye American
boy, Paris loves you. I won’t forget you.”
“I’ll see you in
Seattle soon.”
When I arrived at
the airport I had an hour till boarding so I headed straight for the bar. Who was sitting there drinking her white wine
but Miranda. I absolutely lost it. We shared stories of what had happened. She
said that she thought something must have come up; she hadn’t seen me at the
hostel anymore. I told her I met someone that I’ll never forget, and that I
never wanted to leave. I got a few more whiskeys down, and her a few more white
wines.
“Don’t get on that
flight.” Miranda said.
“What?”
“I did exactly
what you are thinking about doing one time and I’ve regretted it ever since. Go
back and try and love her. But really love her this time.”
“I think I already
do.”
“No you don’t.”
