Two Americans in Paris

by Ritt, Julia

  You perk up instantly and flip through the pages, pausing to read parts that catch your attention.

  “I wrote an article in there,” I say.

  “I’ll have to read it!” you say.

  “It’s about fashion, though.”

  “Oh. Well, then maybe not.”

  I playfully jab your shoulder. “You should still read it! You might learn something. And I’d like to know what you think of it.”

  Before you can respond, the people in front of us leave to be helped by one of the ticket cashiers—we’re next in line. You lean in to me and discreetly say, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to try to use my French. Only if I need help, you can jump in.”

  “Ok.”

  A young, handsome man behind the counter motions for us to come up. We greet him and you express in good but imperfect French that you want to buy a ticket to Vienna. He asks you if we will be travelling together.

  In response you stare back at him silently. You probably just don’t understand what he said, but this doesn’t occur to me. Instead, I wonder if your silence indicates your sudden realization that you will soon be parting from me. More likely, though, I am just projecting. The thought of being parted from you, perhaps forever, feels like a part of myself is being taken away, like a beautifully furnished room ripped harshly from my inner walls. I console myself with the fantasy—one of many I will surely indulge in while we are apart—of how lovely it would be to tour Vienna with you. We would seek Klimt’s gilded hydra in the Belvedere, sink into a dinner of Wienner Schnitzel with a dessert of apricot-chocolate Sacchertorte, and stroll down an imperial garden bedded with scarlet roses while discussing the infinite joys and beauties of life. I can’t join you this time, though. I answer in French for you, “No, just him.”

  You begin to explain in French about your Eurorail pass and wanting to use it to go to Vienna. The young French man quickly deduces you are Anglophone and responds in perfect English, to your relief. Due to the complexity of needing to buy a separate ticket and use your Eurorail pass, you decide to not use your Eurorail pass. You buy a ticket, full price—three hundred and twenty euros. The French man discreetly raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t argue.

  As we walk away from the ticket counter, you quietly say, “I’m a worrier. I can tell he thought I was stupid. I just spent nearly all my money. I only have forty or fifty euros left. I’d rather pay more for the ticket and not have to worry about it.”

  “Yup. He thought you were stupid.” I think you’re stupid too. You’ve just unnecessarily spent most of your money, leaving you with hardly any for your last week in Paris.

  “Before going to the Bois de Boulogne, do you mind if we go back to my place first?” you ask. “I need to eat.”

  “If we go back to your place, will you feed me?” I ask.

  “Yes, you can eat too. I just have pasta and brie, though, which I think is pretty good, but fair warning. It’s a poor man’s meal.” You look to me with a grin, enjoying your self-imposed poverty.

  I grin back. “Sounds good to me.”

  We take RER B from Gare du Nord to Luxembourg.

  As we walk through the Latin Quarter toward your building, my mind is flooded with fond memories from the year I lived here. “Being in the fifth makes me so nostalgic!” As soon as I have said it, I know you will frown upon my nostalgia. You favor a live-in-the-moment attitude. I attempt to explain myself. “I have trouble keeping myself in the present. Half the time I’m thinking about the past or imaging the future. It’s not good. I’m working on it.”

  “I’m pretty good about staying in the present.”

  “I admire you for it.” I flash a doting gaze at you. “And I can enjoy being right here, in this moment, walking with you down rue de l’Abbé-de-l’Epée. But I also think there’s value in fantasy, dreams, and nostalgia. It’s an escape, a means of exploration that inflects on our reality. Sometimes it is our reality. I mean, doesn’t Dumbledore tell Harry ‘Just because something is happening inside your head doesn't mean it’s not real.’”

  You don’t respond. Your eyes are following a young woman striding by us. Her skin is bronzed and she is wearing high-waisted beige shorts and a striped top. Her eyes are large and water-blue, fringed with heavy, dark lashes like glossy cattails. A cascade of shiny brunette locks caress her shoulders and curl attractively around her full breasts. “Now her, she smells great!” you exclaim while she’s still within earshot. “What do you think of her?”

  She’s gorgeous and I agree with you that she smells wonderful—like blood oranges and a freshly snuffed candle undercut by the brisk fall air that turns green leaves to a harmonized rainbow of color. However, asking for my opinion on the attractiveness of other women when you have a girlfriend and know I like you, too, is inconsiderate. You don’t deserve to know what I really think. All I say is, “Eh, nothing special.”

  In your kitchen, you heat up a plate of already-prepared pasta it in the microwave. Without offering me anything, you eat while browsing the internet on your laptop. Your eyebrows are furrowed slightly and your eyes are glazed with eager expectation, as though you are searching for something you both hope and dread finding. I strongly suspect whatever you are looking for has to do with your girlfriend. I don’t want to know about it. I am also astounded by your rudeness. You had assured me that I could eat at your place, too. “Would you mind if I made some pasta too?”

  You answer without looking away from the screen. “Yeah, that’s fine. It’s in the cupboard above the microwave.”

  While the pasta boils, you tell me you hope that you don’t come off as creepy when interacting with women.

  “You’re not creepy,” I assure you.

  “Not being creepy is one of my top three things to do each day. The first is probably pee because there’s almost nowhere to use the bathroom in Paris.”

  When the pasta is cooked, I add some brie to it and devour my poor-man’s lunch at the table.

  Before we leave, I go to use the bathroom, but there’s no toilet paper. There wasn’t any when I was here on Bastille Day, either. Very little seems to be going well today. “Oh my god there’s still no toilet paper!” I exclaim as I walk past you toward my purse, plucking a napkin from it. “Boys! Only boys would have no toilet paper for so long!”

  “Sorry about that . . .”

  Upon my return from the bathroom you put your laptop away. We return to the street, making our way to the Odéon bus stop. Without precedent you tell me, “My girlfriend’s sister is getting married today.”

  “Okay.” I don’t want to talk about your girlfriend.

  “My girlfriend is angry. I was supposed to fly back on the eighteenth for the wedding but I decided to stay longer. Her sister wouldn’t even let her take her best friend to the wedding with her instead of me.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It is. But I want to see my uncle in Vienna. He’s a really interesting guy and I’ve really been looking forward to spending time with him. And I’ll also be spending time with my cousins.” You pause, gathering your frustration into a single sentence. “I don’t feel I should be prevented from seeing my family, but my girlfriend is really mad.”

  I don’t want to commiserate with you, so I ask you a question that isn’t really relevant to your problem. “Are you upset about not being able to go to the wedding?”

  “I’m not angry . . .”

  I say nothing more. Your girlfriend is not a welcome topic of conversation.

  You get the hint and change the subject. “When do you leave Paris?”

  “The twenty-third.”

  “Cool, I leave the twenty-second!” A spring of excitement travels up your spine and flows out to your whole body.

  We sit on the pewter bench of the Odéon bus stop. Across the street a city worker is sweeping the street with the standard green broom all the city street sweepers use. Nearby is his little green truck.

  “I wouldn’t mind doing that.” You gestu
re to the street sweeper.

  “Being a little green man?” I ask.

  “A little green man?” you ask.

  “Yeah, my one friend calls them little green men because they drive around in those little green trucks.”

  “Oh. I just don’t think any job has more value than another. I’d be a bus driver.”

  My jaw clenches to prevent myself from saying anything. I don’t want to have an argument. I keep my rant to myself. The work you could do and are doing has so much more value than many other jobs.

  You love your students. You understand how to make them passionate about reading and writing and you teach them to do it well. You inspire them and all the girls fall in love with you. Your students keep in touch with you and they keep reading.

  Your work as a teacher has more value than the work of a bus driver or a street sweeper. Their work is essential and valuable—people get from place to place and litter is cleared away—but it’s unlikely their work has ever changed someone’s life. Your students learn from you. Their minds grow and the opportunities they can take advantage of expands.

  If you make it your ambition, you will improve the way we learn and make education equal for everyone in America. You have the whole world in your grasp. It is yours to change. You are so much more than you yet understand.

  The bus rolls up, ending my silent tirade. We board and sit in the back, our bodies swaying in-tune with the bus’s motion. You ask if we can speak in French. Delighted that you have asked, I begin speaking in French quickly and about my favorite subjects, books and fashion. At first, you try to speak in French, but quickly give up. You respond instead in English, grinning cheekily as you do. Frustrated and disappointed that you aren’t doing as you asked me to do, I return to speaking in English too.

  At the end of the line we disembark and make our way toward the center of the park.

  As we walk, I feel an uncomfortable pressure on my bladder. I have to pee and now we’re in a park. I have no idea where a bathroom might be. I hesitate to say anything because I know you will be annoyed.

  We pass a group of soccer players and you look at them longingly, making no effort to conceal your desire to join them even though you’re here with me. I pull your attention away from them, “Don’t hate me, but I have to pee.”

  You sigh. “Alright. We’ll just have to find a bathroom.”

  We walk deeper into the park and pass the lake where we’ll go row-boating. For the moment, my plan is to find a map and locate a restaurant or café, which always have bathrooms.

  You’re sulky, sighing exasperatedly and grunting. My doleful darling, there isn’t anything I would like less than to cause you any discomfort. I decide to tell you a story to distract you. “The last time I was here my friend and we saw a hooker van and prostitutes got out. Their pimp bought them lunch. I think the vans have little beds in the back of them.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “I wouldn’t want to have sex in the back of a stranger’s van, no matter how desperate I was. While we were here, my friend and I also saw a group of men in business suits stroll down one of the roads as if it were the most natural thing in the world. We decided they were looking for the prostitutes.”

  You laugh a little and begin searching for a hooker van. At the sight of the next large automobile you ask, “Is that the hooker van?”

  “No. The hooker vans are white.”

  Disheartened by the search already, your mind resets on the current problem. “You could pee in the woods.”

  “I can’t pee in the woods!” I protest. “I just couldn’t. It would be so weird.”

  “I’m not going to watch.”

  “But it’s knowing that you would know I was peeing. I just couldn’t.” I shake my head. As I look around at the splendor of nature, all I feel is anxiety. My need to use the bathroom is compounded by my knowledge that I’m inconveniencing you. “I feel badly that I have to pee.”

  “You should!”

  I hope you don’t mean it but the slice of your words cuts upon impact, sending a painful shock through my body. I should scold you for your cruel response but my fear of losing you grips my emotions with thick, black claws and I am stifled. I am determined to not give you the slightest cause to dislike my company until I know your desire to spend time with me will continue when we’re back in the States. I will tell you how I feel about your bad behavior when I know that you miss me and will travel to see me. I must know our friendship will withstand the strain of time and space. So I suppress my confident, bossy self, which you would likely find more attractive if I were to express it. I feel powerless, bound to my uncontrollable longing for the caress of your limbs and the warm outpouring of your love. I want this unpleasant situation to be over as quickly as possible. “I want to break into a run, find a bathroom, and come back to you.”

  “Do you really have to pee that badly?”

  “No. I just really don’t like inconveniencing people.” Especially you.

  Rather than running ahead, I walk briskly, leaving you strolling along behind me as if there were nothing to be in a hurry about. I frequently turn my head to keep track of you.

  Finally, we find a map, which shows there is a building with a restaurant in it nearby. We quickly locate it.

  Inside, I find a young man in a waiter’s uniform and ask him where the bathroom is. He tells me it’s on the second floor. I soar up the steps. At the top of the second flight I find a powder room and just beyond it is a toilet. It is so beautiful.

  Upon leaving, I descend the steps with a one two, one two, rhythm like an overjoyed bunny. Outside, the air seems fresher than before, buoyant with health and vigor. I spot you sitting beneath a tree. I walk over to you.

  You look up at me, your chestnut eyes glistening. “I was stung by a bee.” You show me the swollen red bump on your foot.

  “Oh no! Are you alright?”

  “Yeah. I just feel bad for the bee. He’s going to die.”

  I find it agonizingly adorable that you feel badly about the bee’s death even though it stung you. “Aw. Yeah, I guess that does happen. Can you walk?”

  “Yeah.”

  We stroll back through the park, on our way back to the lake. Even though we’re beyond the perimeter of Paris, the top of La Tour Eiffel peeks over the skyline every once in a while, reminding us of Paris’ closeness.

  We discuss Professor’s class and argue about whether Baudelaire’s translation of Poe’s work is better than Poe’s original. You insist that “Poe is too good. It’s not possible Baudelaire’s is better,” while I insist the critical consensus is that Baudelaire’s is better. We agree to ask Professor about it when we meet him for drinks next week. By your suggestion and my initiative to email Professor, he has agreed to meet us on our last evening together in Paris.

  We enter the area where rowboats may be rented and each put five euros on the counter to rent a boat for one hour. “If we take more than an hour, they charge us more, so we need to keep an eye on the time,” I tell you.

  You nod, “Okay.”

  Before getting into the rowboat, I ask you to take the oars first to give the boat direction. When I last took a rowboat onto the lake with my friend, we spent most of our hour stuck in a corner until a young man prodded our boat back out into the middle of the lake.

  Like an unsure child, you flap the oars, making splashes in the water. “You look so silly.” I half hide my giggles behind my hand. “I’m so glad you started. I know I would look just as silly.”

  “That is why I started.” You keep your expression calm and focused as you settle into the motions of rowing.

  “Turn a little to the left. No, no, the right,” I direct you. “It’s backwards for you.”

  You slip the tip of your tongue between your lips in concentration. I hold my camera with its focus centered on you. I capture the sphere of your head silhouetted over the quivering poplars lining the lake, the breadth of your torso bending as you row, your smiling fa
ce bathed in soft afternoon light. Later, I would show them to my sister. She insists that “It looks as if an angel took them. They’re the only good pictures of him on Facebook.” My sister’s response bolsters my belief that I see the best of you—your handsomeness, sophistication, and intelligence. The rest of the photos of you on Facebook show you as drunk, obscene, and cocky.

  I hand you my camera and ask you to take pictures of me rowing. You take off-center photos of me, as though avoiding the intimacy of my image. In an effort to make my appearance as appealing as possible, I turn my head sideways to make my bob look as long and sleek. Aiming for a sexier look, I stare up at you through the fringe of my eyelashes.

  “Well, now you just look constipated,” you say.

  “Great.” I roll my eyes. Of course my attempt to look sexy is a turn-off.

  You put my camera back in my purse.

  “Can we switch positions so I can row?” I ask.

  “How are we going to do it?” you ask.

  “We both kneel in the center and then crawl over to the other side.”

  I kneel and you do the same. The boat wobbles. I freeze on my knees beside you, silently wishing this were a kinky game and not a maneuver to switch our seats. You scramble up onto the other side.

  “Okay, I’m up on the other side,” you say.

  I pull myself onto the seat and take an oar in each of my hands. We glide onward.

  You direct me as I directed you to ensure we don’t bump into other boats or veer too near the edges of the lake. “Turn that way. Now to the left. Use the left paddle. Okay you’re straight.”

  Lactic acid burns in my upper body muscles. “I’m going to be sore tomorrow.” I rub my upper arm, allowing the canoe to float for a moment.

  “Do you want me to row?”

  “No. I love rowing. Do you want to row?” I offer, hoping you will decline.

  “No,” you shake your head. “I’m content to be the passenger. I don’t mind being . . . feminized.” You gesture toward a couple of French men sniggering at us. “I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I know what they’re saying.”