Pardon My French

by Allen Johnson

  That is what I am for: protecting the rights of life, liberty, and happiness for all human beings because we are all created equal. The fact that Jefferson’s creed was a sanctuary for white, wealthy men—and not for women or poor citizens or black slaves or American Indians—does not invalidate the correctness of the principle.

  There is one other Revolutionary War American who has stirred me with his words. It was the political activist Thomas Paine who wrote this beautiful mission statement.

  “The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion.”

  That is a mantra that I can live by.

  These ideas are burned into my heart. To express my thoughts publicly, I decided to send a few lines to the editor of our local newspaper. My words were published a week later. I called it “An American Anthem for 2004”:

  Let us try again.

  Let us open our hearts,

  Shoulder the burden,

  Offer a hand to those in need:

  The ghetto boy,

  The Indian brave,

  The Latino field hand,

  The teenage father,

  The single mother,

  The disillusioned,

  The dispassionate,

  The betrayed,

  The forgotten.

  Let our voices ring—

  Not for “preemptive war,”

  But for international law.

  Not for oil, rubber, copper, and slave labor,

  But for bread and shelter,

  For education and immunization,

  For honest work and an honorable wage,

  For comfort, safety, and children’s laughter.

  Let us not allow something good

  To get in the way of something better:

  Let us be,

  Not one nation under God,

  But one world under God.

  Let us blunt our swords

  In the name of humanity.

  Let us suspend judgment,

  Seek understanding,

  And give tolerance a chance.

  Let us be citizens of the world

  And unrelenting warriors

  For Love, Peace, and Joy.

  Let this be our American Anthem.

  That is the news from Richland, Washington, USA. I miss you all. I am already looking forward to our reunion in one year.

  Love, peace, and joy, Allen

  CHAPTER 15

  The Americans Return

  WE RETURNED TO PÉROLS IN ONE YEAR. When we arrived at the Montpellier airport, I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. It felt so good to be back that I could hardly contain myself as we weaved our way through airport security. When Nita and I finally walked through the glass doors into the terminal, we were greeted with hoots and whistles. My eyes followed the clamor, and there they were—the beautiful lot of them, led by the French-American hiking team. I picked up Marie, who is as light as a feather, and lifted her above my head.

  “You’ll hurt your back,” she squealed.

  “Oh no, never,” I shot back.

  It was not French, but I gave American hugs to everyone. We were hugging so tightly, laughing so loudly that I suddenly realized that we had created quite a stir in the airport.

  “Oh là là,” a woman in her forties said in half astonishment, half delight.

  “Oh là là is right,” I said with a toothy grin. “Would you like me to give you a hug too?”

  She was speechless, so I kissed her on both cheeks, knowing that an outright hug had the potential of creating an ugly international incident.

  “Welcome to France,” she said flushed and popeyed.

  Admittedly, I was now performing for my friends. “My name is Allen,” I said to the nameless woman. “Would you like to be my friend too?”

  “I think I would,” the woman said, “but I have to catch a flight now.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “If you want to find me, just go to Pérols and ask for the American, Allen.”

  She left smiling, but I think she was shaking her head when she said once again, “Oh là là.”

  I think the French are both puzzled and intrigued by my social style. (And I’m sure there are a few who are put off.) But I cannot do otherwise. It is something that I inherited from my mother, who, as they say, never met a stranger. I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just genuinely curious about the lives of others. And if you don’t mind me saying so, I think it is that very quality that makes the ideal world traveler: someone with an unquenchable sense of curiosity and a willingness to appear childlike.

  There is a second quality that is even more indispensable to becoming a world-class traveler. To always say “yes.” When you are in another country, and you are invited to a dinner, even a dinner with strange food, say “yes.” When you are invited to dance, say “yes.” When you are asked to attend an antiwar march, say “yes” (if only to observe if you cannot, in good conscience, participate). When you are invited to attend a wedding or visit an unfamiliar village or simply go for a long walk along the beach, you must always say “yes.” Saying “no” is tantamount to saying, “I don’t care about you, your country, or your customs.” It is the height of boorishness.

  The subtitle of this book is entitled How a Grumpy American Fell in Love with France. It’s true that I can be cantankerous (you’ve read about some of my more snippy moments in these pages). But that’s not where the story ends. That crankiness was ultimately and inexorably overpowered by love.

  Here’s what I believe. Every “yes” releases a pinpoint of light until that beam burgeons into a blaze of clarity. That blaze is called awareness, understanding, and intimacy—a blaze that transformed this grumpy American into a lover. That is the power of saying “yes.”

  * * *

  SAYING “YES” PAID RICH DIVIDENDS early into our second year.

  I was standing in line, waiting to check out my shopping cart of weekly groceries. It was Saturday, so it was a slow-moving procession.

  Standing behind me was a tall, distinguished gentleman with a friendly face. I mentally practiced and then articulated one of the acceptable French phrases for interrupting someone’s solitude.

  “Excusez-moi de vous déranger monsieur.” Excuse me for bothering you sir.

  The man smiled a warm, inviting smile. “Oh, you are not bothering me,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  There was an intelligent iridescence in the eyes of this dignified gentleman, which made me think that he might be willing to be playful with me. So I used one of my pat opening lines for starting a conversation. “I am an American,” I said.

  His eyebrows arched.

  “I can’t imagine that you thought I was Parisian,” I added.

  “Well, I was vacillating between the two. Is he Parisian and or is he American. Which is it? It’s so hard to say.”

  Oh, I definitely liked this guy.

  “Yeah, right.” I almost punched him in the arm, but that would have been too risky, even for me. “Are you from here?”

  “Montpellier,” he said.

  “I love the backstreets of Montpellier. They have so much character.”

  “I live on one of those backstreets. Not far from the Cathédrale Saint-Pierre.”

  “Ah, do you? You’re very lucky. I love that part of the city.”

  “Would you like to come visit my family and me?”

  This man cannot be French, I thought. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked if you would like to come visit us. Are you married?”

  “Ah … well, yes, I am married. And yes, absolutely, we would love to visit you. I’m just astonished that you would invite me without even knowing my name.”

  “Do you think your name might make me change my mind? What is your name?”

  “Allen. My name is Allen.”

  He threw both hands over his shoulders. “Oh, I’m sorry, forget everything I said. That’s a terrible name. We can’t possibly have you at the house.”
<
br />   I looked down at my shoes, impersonating both sorrow and embarrassment. “Yeah, that’s what I figured. I’m so sorry to have troubled you.”

  The man laughed at my charade, and when I lifted my head, I saw that his hand was extended.

  “My name is Benoît,” he said.

  I shook his hand. “My name is Allen. But you know that already.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you Allen.”

  We exchanged contact information, and Benoît explained how I could easily take the tramway to his apartment. We set a dinner date for Saturday night.

  My wife has always been more conservative than I. So when I told her that we were invited to dinner at the home of a friend in Montpellier, she was at a loss.

  “Who do we know in Montpellier?”

  “Benoît.”

  “Who’s Benoît?”

  “He’s a man I just met.”

  “We’re having dinner with someone you just met?”

  “Right.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “Standing in the checkout line at Carrefour.”

  “Standing in line?”

  “Yeah, it was crazy. We just started talking, and the next thing I knew we had an invitation for dinner.”

  “That’s not like the French.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Well, do you think we should go?”

  “Why would we not go?”

  “Because you don’t know who he is.”

  “I know enough. He’s a good man.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Trust me, I can tell.”

  So when Saturday arrived, Nita was feeling a little apprehensive. That malaise came to a peak when, after two tramway connections and a half-mile walk, we stood in front of the gated apartment house. The courtyard looked like a scene from the pen of Edgar Allan Poe. Unkempt vines were a tangle along the crest of the eight-foot wrought-iron gate. As we peered apprehensively through the railing, we spied a tenebrous courtyard strewn with dead leaves from a half-dozen autumns. A bicycle with rusted chain and spokes leaned against the ashen three-story apartment wall like a dead horse.

  If that were not enough, a scowling crow perched on a leafless tree branch cawed at us with incessant acrimony. Was the bird’s call a presage of unimagined horror that awaited us on the other side of the gate? We could not help but wonder as we surveyed the courtyard that looked increasingly like a worn sepia photograph stained with time.

  “Do we ring?” Nita asked.

  Even I was feeling a little shaky. “Sure,” I said with false bravado. “We’ve come this far. What do we have to lose?”

  “How about our lives?” Nita said in a tone too serious for my liking.

  “Nah,” I said, pressing the bell once and then again.

  We waited thirty seconds. “Well, I guess nobody’s home,” Nita said, as she turned and started to walk double-quick down the street toward the tramway station.

  Just then the front door swung open, and Benoît greeted me with a wave.

  “He’s coming,” I said in a stage whisper to Nita.

  Her head and shoulders went slack as she slowly looped back and rolled her eyes at me.

  “Bonsoir,” I said, waving back to Benoît.

  As the friendly Frenchman crossed the courtyard, Nita said, “I don’t know about this,” which I ignored.

  Benoît unlatched the gate, and I did the introductions.

  “So happy to meet you,” Benoît said to Nita, kissing her cheeks one, two, three times.

  “Happy to meet you,” Nita said with an almost genuine tone.

  We walked across the courtyard, up a three-step stoop, and through the front door. We were greeted by a stairwell that was no more inviting than the courtyard. The wallpaper was water stained and peeling. Halfway up the staircase an old placard announcing a concert scheduled for the last decade hung askew by a single tack.

  Benoît mumbled an off-handed apology for the condition of the foyer.

  “Oh, this is quaint. It has character,” Nita said.

  I glanced at Nita, who looked like she actually meant it.

  “It’s not fancy,” Benoît said, “but it’s home.”

  Stepping into Benoît’s apartment was like walking into a fine antique shop. There was a long hallway with bedrooms on the left and a sitting room and dining room on the right. A very small kitchen was at the far end of the hall. The hardwood floors were dark oak, and the walls were adorned with beautiful watercolor paintings. The entryways into each room were decorated with hand-painted flowering vines.

  “Who is the artist?” I asked.

  “That would be me,” a silky voice said behind me.

  I turned and faced a beautiful, slender, dark-haired woman in her early forties. Benoît, who was twenty years her senior, introduced the woman as his wife, Elisabeth.

  The four of us sat down in their sitting room. As is the French custom, Elisabeth had set out one bowl of pistachios and another of green olives. Benoît poured the drinks.

  We moved easily into animated conversation. We learned that Benoît had been a professor of biology at the University of Montpellier. He had written several books on vegetation and ecology. As for Elisabeth, she was indeed the artist—particularly gifted at working with watercolors. But, like her husband, she was also a charming conversationalist.

  It was then that we were introduced to their two teenage sons, Joseph and Antonin. The elder of the two was Joseph, a tall and slender teenager, who was an ardent hip-hop dancer. I quickly realized that dancing was a good choice for him. His high-octane energy was ideal for a youngster who wished to make a name for himself by spinning on his head. Let me give you a sense for Joseph. As the adults were happily chattering, he must have become bored. Without fanfare, he lifted and wrapped both feet behind his head, all the while pretending to be engrossed in a scientific journal. It was my first introduction to a human pretzel.

  “That’s gotta hurt,” I said.

  “Nope,” Joseph said. “It’s what I do.”

  Antonin was a little more sedate but not by much. He, like his brother, seemed to be interested in comic books and video games.

  When it was time for dinner, we were led through the dining room and onto a magical balcony that overlooked a five-hundred-year-old park.

  “This is why we choose this apartment,” Benoît said. “The apartment is small, but this—this is heaven.”

  And he was right, it was heaven. The night air was warm, and the tiny tree frogs were croaking. After a delicious salad, we were served an equally delectable main course of veal, sliced bell peppers, and une tartiflette (potatoes, Reblochon cheese, and chopped bacon and onion). Then we all sat back in our chairs and sipped the red wine.

  “This is one of those moments,” I said to Nita with a slow sigh of satisfaction.

  “What kind of moment is that?” Elisabeth asked.

  “It is a perfect moment,” I explained. “It does not happen often, but sometimes, if everything is right and the gods are smiling, you know that nothing could be more perfect. This is one of those moments. You are both such gracious hosts. And Elisabeth, you are a master chef. The conversation is bright and funny, and the evening air feels like a warm bath. It is all being played out right here, this moment, overlooking this incredible French garden.” I shrugged my shoulders. “What can I say? This is one of those moments.”

  That was the beginning of a lifelong friendship. Over the years, we have hiked together, picnicked together, and gone to concerts together. Today, one of Elisabeth’s paintings hangs in our home; one of Benoît’s books is in my library. We have found summer homes for both Joseph and Antonin in the States to give them a boost to their English fluency. In turn, we have had American students stay with Benoît and Elisabeth.

  When we are with Elisabeth and Benoît, we are at home. When we are separated, we miss them. They are truly our dear friends! Even if their courtyard does have a rather shadowy, gothic am
biance.

  * * *

  THE SECOND HAPPY ENCOUNTER OF OUR SECOND YEAR was a Spanish treasure. Juanito was thirteen-years old when he immigrated to France from Barcelona just after World War II. When he arrived, he was intent on becoming absolutely fluent in French. With the help of his French teacher, he drilled and drilled until he was a master of the language. When I arrived in Pérols, I asked who was considered to be the most elegant and well-spoken Frenchman in our village. I was told to look up Juanito. And so I did. I soon learned that his French was, indeed, impeccable. With time I discovered that his character was equally flawless.

  I first met Juanito on a hike. He was leading a group of twenty on an easy fifteen-kilometer trek. At one point we crossed a vineyard on our way to a dirt road on the other side. Before we got to the road, the owner sprinted from his home with his shotgun in hand.

  Juanito immediately spotted the angry man and met him half way. I followed at a distance just to hear the conversation.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” the owner shouted.

  “Evidently, we are fools who do not belong here,” Juanito said.

  “You’ve got that right,” the owner said, his venom already diminishing.

  “I am so sorry,” Juanito said.

  “You should be sorry.”

  “We are a hiking club from Pérols, and I was under the false impression that our route had been approved. Obviously that is not the case. We were trying to get to that dirt road.” Juanito pointed to our destination. “But we will backtrack if you prefer.”

  At this point the owner opened the barrel of his shotgun as a sign of appeasement. “No, you don’t have to do that,” he said. “But next time talk to me first.”

  “That is only right,” Juanito said. “And thank you for your kindness.”

  “Not a problem. You know, if you are ready for a lunch break, there’s a stand of trees on the edge of my property that’s ideal.”

  “That would be wonderful. Are you sure it is not an inconvenience?”

  “Not at all,” the man said, shaking hands with Juanito.

  That’s when I decided to make Juanito my friend. Any man who could so deftly defuse an angry Frenchman with a shotgun was a man I wanted as a buddy.