“Okay!” I said, clapping my hands and wrapping up the remains of my greasy Royale with fromage. “Who’s ready for Sainte-Chapelle?”
“I feel ill,” whined Karen.
Of course you feel ill, we’ve just ingested the worst food this fine city has to offer.
“Suck it up, buttercup! You’re in Paris! Let’s do this,” my sister responded helpfully. Grudgingly, Karen stood up, and we trekked to Sainte-Chapelle.
Sainte-Chapelle is gorgeous and peaceful, even when flooded with tourists. I figured we could all use a little peace and that would help Karen chill out, even if just a little. But amidst the soaring stained glass windows, Karen still seemed oddly agitated. When we finished she asked, “Can we go back to the hotel now?”
I sighed and let go of my plans to see the Musée d’Orsay that afternoon. Plans are meant to be altered, and after all, the morning was the best time to see museums. We’d do it first thing the next day.
Back at the hotel, Karen insisted there was something really wrong with her. She described her symptoms, and being a veteran of urinary tract infections, I diagnosed her. No wonder she was grumpy! I looked in the hotel directory for a physician. I was willing to pay for the doctor, if just to get to enjoy the rest of my visit.
“No,” Karen said. “I don’t want a doctor. I want to go back to the house.”
“BACK TO THE HOUSE, IN GERMANY?!” I wanted to scream at her. Instead I said, “Let Steven get you some cranberry juice and a few bottles of water. I know you’re feeling dreadful, but let’s see if we can curb it a little. I’m sure the pharmacy has something over the counter for the pain.”
I sent Steven on a mission for the medicine and beverages. He returned to the hotel not five minutes later.
“We’ve been booted,” he said.
“Booted?”
“Yeah, the car.”
“WHAT?!”
“I’m going to find out how to get the boot taken off, but someone else needs to go to the pharmacy.”
It was getting later in the day, and I was starting to see red. So I decided to find the pharmacy myself. With the help of the front desk clerk and the friendliness of the Parisians (I say that without irony or sarcasm; Parisians, despite their reputation, are some of the friendliest people in the world.) I managed to track down an appropriate over-the-counter painkiller, cranberry juice and several liters of still water. Karen had demanded prior to my leaving, “Don’t bring back sparkling water, April, it’s disgusting. I don’t know how these people drink it.”
I returned triumphant, sure that everyone would make it to dinner and we would resume our regularly scheduled programming. Unfortunately, as I approached the hotel, I saw my husband still sitting near the car.
“Any luck?” I asked.
“Yeah, kind of. They should be here between now and tonight.”
“NOW AND TONIGHT? What about dinner?” My voice edged toward a whine of its own.
“I don’t know,” Steven replied, sounding exasperated himself.
I sighed and trudged up the stairs to the room. My sister was doing her best to appease her difficult friend when I entered.
“I just want to call my mom. I’m not sure it’s a urinary tract infection.”
“Fine. Call your mom, but I got you this,” I said. “I’m sure it will help.”
“God, I hate cranberry juice. Are you sure about that medicine? I can’t read the label.”
“Yes. I spoke with the pharmacist. His English was impeccable. He assured me this would help with the pain. When we get back to the house I have antibiotics that will take care of the actual infection.”
“I just want to talk to my mom.”
“Then CALL HER!”
The phone conversation was tearful, and what I got from it was that perhaps Karen didn’t have a urinary tract infection; perhaps what she had was a touch of homesickness.
The police and tow truck showed up in a remarkably timely manner, after only six hours, to remove the boot and take their fine, 300 euros. I was both pissed and elated because it meant we could still make our dinner reservations.
Despite my urgings to drink as much water and cranberry juice as possible and to take the damned medicine, Karen ignored me and continued to be in pain. But no way was I going to miss this meal. And my sister wouldn’t either.
“C’mon Karen, it’s going to be delicious and wonderful. Let’s get dressed. Drink up, you’re going to love it,” my sister cajoled.
“No.”
“Okaaaay…” I replied, at a loss on what to do with this 23-year-old child I suddenly had on my hands. “Well,” I said, stretching out the ‘l’ for two seconds longer than I should have, “are you going to be okay in the hotel by yourself?”
“I guess,” she said, followed with a sigh. “But I’d really rather go back to your house.”
“In GERMANY?!” I responded, my voice taking on an edge. “Not tonight. We’re going to dinner. We’d love for you to come, but the decision is yours.”
“I’ll stay, thanks.”
The three of us left and enjoyed a sumptuous and remarkable meal at Benoit. Satiated, maybe a bit tipsy, I felt optimistic we would return to the hotel and find that Karen had taken the pills and drank all the liquids and our Parisian adventures could continue.
No such luck. We returned, and I noticed immediately that the pills were still in the box and she’d only consumed half a liter of water and zero cranberry juice. Still, I struggled to be polite.
“Feeling any better?” I asked. “Did you manage to rest?”
“Not really. I want to go back to the house.”
“In GERMANY?! Let’s see how you feel tomorrow. Drink up,” I insisted.
“You don’t want to miss Paris do you?” my sister asked. Silence.
“Okay, well, goodnight! Feel better.”
~~~~
Friday, 4 July 2008
“I want to go home,” were the first words Karen said to me when I woke up.
“Karen, if you have a urinary tract infection, and I think it’s pretty clear that you do, then getting in the car and driving for four hours is going to be much more unpleasant than staying here.”
“No. I want to go home.”
“To the STATES?! First, your flight leaves out of Frankfurt, second it’s not for another five days, third, WE HAVE THE MEDICINE HERE TO TAKE CARE OF YOUR PROBLEM.”
“I want to go HOME,” she replied stubbornly. “I want to go back to Germany TODAY. I’m going to change my flight.”
“But… but…” I’m rarely at a loss for words, but I no longer knew how to deal with this person. She had all of Paris at her fingertips, but wanted nothing to do with it. She couldn’t be reasoned with. I looked to my sister and husband for help.
“C’mon Karen,” my sister said quietly.
“No.”
“Fine. Let me see if we can get a refund for the rest of the days we paid for.” I left the room in a huff to talk to the hotel manager.
No refund.
The money, being mine and not Karen’s, didn’t seem to bother her. There was nothing left to do but pack up and head back to Ramstein. What’s another 250 euros down the drain?
Back in the car, Karen’s spirits improved incredibly. Also, miraculously she had no urge to pee the entire way home. Even more fantastically, once she changed her plane ticket (to leave Europe exactly one day early), she was in fine spirits. I suggested eating at a little German tavern in our village, but Karen wanted to go on base to Chili’s. She never took my antibiotics.
I threw my hands up in disgust and told my sister, privately, that I was only making one drive out to Frankfurt—someone could take the train, I didn’t care who it was. My sister, ever the trooper, spent her second-to-last day in Europe escorting Karen to Frankfurt International, about four hours round trip on the milk train, ensuring Karen got to her gate.
All I can say is she’s a better friend than me.
Luckily, I would have numerous op
portunities to visit and re-visit Paris during the rest of my stay in Germany. It’s a beautiful and wondrous city. But for some, there’s no place like home.
Note: Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
What’s Love Got To Do With It?
Garden of Eden
Vicki Lesage
As a mother of a 4-month-old girl and a 2-year-old boy, I’ve got one thing on my mind: cheating on my husband.
Not because my husband is two-timing (he’s not). Not because I have a burning desire to horizontal-tango with a sexy stranger (I don’t). But because an ad in the subway is telling me to (those bastards).
As I trudge up the Métro stairs to meet Papa for lunch, my daughter in the baby carrier and my son taking his jolly old time stomping on each step, the ad screams at me. I pause to catch my breath, brushing my disheveled hair out of my tired eyes, and fully take in the ad.
Seven apples stretch across the banner. Six days of the week, it declares, I’m a boring Granny Smith. But on Friday, glorious Friday, I could be a sexy, sassy Red Delicious.
“Pomme!” my French-American son shouts, proudly recognizing the fruit.
I’m half-tempted to shield his innocent eyes from the offensive poster. But since he can’t read yet, I let it slide, mainly so I can investigate further.
The advertisement is for a dating website. Fair enough. For married people. Oh. Not cool. Not cool at all.
I’m shocked and offended on so many levels. And I’m not easily shocked or offended. I met my husband in a bar and have passed out on bathroom floors more often than I’d like to admit (or, to be honest, more often than I can remember). I’m no stranger to partying and livin’ it up.
But I hold my marriage vows sacred. I promised to love my husband for better or for worse, or at least I think that’s what I said during our French ceremony. Most of our conversations these days involve poop, farts or burps—either as conversation topics or background noise. But there’s no one I’d rather clean up baby puke with.
I find so many things wrong with this billboard I hardly know where to begin. Just kidding. I’m a seasoned complainer; of course I know where to begin.
On a practical level, this can’t be the best medium for their advertisement. Sure, cheaters take the Métro but everyone in Paris takes the Métro. Plenty of people outside the target audience—including my toddler—will pass by its content. Seems like an expensive way to reach a small percentage of the demographic. Maybe the ads would be more effective online? Or in a hotel restroom? Or the backseat of a taxi?
I’m irked that kids will see it because it endorses infidelity. Cigarette ads are banned so as not to encourage impressionable minds to pick up the habit. But cheating? That’s OK because there’s no smoking (at least not until after the sex).
And could they be any more clichéd? Seriously, a cheating website in France? Why don’t they name the site SuperFrenchCliche.com? I’m surprised the ad didn’t feature berets and baguettes. Way to feed into the stereotype, guys.
Their website (because of course I had to check it out) philosophizes, “How can you know the mistress/lover who’s missing from your life if you haven’t met?” Um, I didn’t know I was missing that part of my life! It’s bad enough that magazines and commercials shout at me to Lose the Baby Weight in Two Months and Banish Wrinkles and Eat Healthy, You Fat Lazy Slob.
Now I have to take on a lover, too? I just want to use the bathroom without a kid within arm’s reach, and you want me to find a lover? A “mister?” (If that’s not what a male mistress is called, it should be). Well, I hope my mister doesn’t mind me falling asleep during the act because I’m running on empty.
How about instead of advocating extramarital affairs, they advocate fixing your marriage? Oh pardonnez-moi, that’s not as (apple)saucy.
I’m appalled they presume I have time to search for a luh-va online. The internet is for reading Homeland spoilers and checking Facebook to see what my friends ate for dinner. While juggling an infant and slurping cold coffee. You must be joking if you think I have time to scan married dudes’ dating profiles to find Mr. Right Behind My Husband’s Back.
My biggest issue with this asshole of a website is it’s an insult to those of us who struggled to find our partner in the first place.
After years of dating nice guys, bad boys and not-right-now guys, I finally found the man of my dreams. In Paris. A real live Frenchie. (Cue jaunty accordion music and romantic sunset over the Pont des Arts). It’s the stuff movies are made of, right?
Maybe. But the path leading there was rough, and many a time I thought I’d die alone, except for my cats. But I don’t even have cats so I’d just die alone. (Cue sad accordion music and the pitter patter of raindrops on an empty cobblestoned street).
In my naïveté, I’ve always thought affairs happened by accident. A fan of drinking, I could see myself having one too many glasses of bubbly, meeting a mysterious stranger, and being tempted, in the heat of the moment, to forsake my wedding vows.
I wouldn’t actually do it, mind you. My husband is the French Ryan Gosling but even better because I can kiss him without getting slapped with a restraining order (not that I tried to kiss Ryan Gosling, but that’s only because I’ve never been close enough). In addition to being tall, dark and handsome, my husband volunteers for nighttime baby feedings, cooks a mean lasagna and massages the hell out of my feet. I’d be a fool to cheat on him.
But if it were ever to happen, being drunk out of my mind is the only way I could see it going down. A spur-of-the-moment lapse in judgment that I’d regret forever.
Not a premeditated internet search with a username and password.
How greedy can these cheaters be? Their private island isn’t secluded enough? Their wallet is so full they can’t close it? We hapless and hopeless romantics spend our lives looking for The One, and now these insatiable d-bags are searching for Another One.
The website has the right to exist, just like people have the right to scratch the seven-year itch. But, much like pistachio ice cream, I don’t have to like it. (If I lost you there, let me clarify: People who like pistachio ice cream are cheaters because I can find no other explanation for why you would willingly take something so good and ruin it.)
As I call down the Métro corridor to my son—“Leo, slow down!”—and wipe drool from my sleeping daughter’s chin, I consider I must not be the ad’s intended audience. I have neither the desire nor the time for infidelity.
That is, unless Ryan Gosling sets up a profile.
La Vie en Rose
Marie Vareille
Christmas passed with hardly a trace: In the neighborhood of Belleville, neither the owners of the Chinese supermarkets nor the prostitutes on boulevard de la Villette put up trees in their windows. Between the Peking ducks hanging in the restaurants, no one hung up Christmas ornaments. All the better. As of tomorrow, I would officially be a widow for longer than I had been married. I’d have to buy a small bottle of champagne to celebrate.
In my previous life, when I was married, I would have told you that from the dormer of my studio under the rafters, I saw the Sacré-Cœur and Notre-Dame and that the snow, like a coat, wrapped the most beautiful city in the world.
I wouldn’t have lied. That’s really what I would have seen. I used to wear rose-colored glasses that masked the ugliness of the rest of the world. Everything was to be marveled at, everything was magnificent and beautiful.
Not any more. David took the rose-colored glasses when he left. Now, I see life the way it is. I see the truth, and the truth is ugly. The truth is that my window is poorly insulated and the view is of a gray cement building across the way, laundry on rusty lines and melting snow in pots of dead flowers. That’s the real Paris—not the Paris of postcards and American films. It’s the gray Paris that doesn’t interest anyone. The truth, also, is that I have more and more difficulty remembering David’s face.
It’s good the rose-colored glasses are gone. Now, I live in r
eality. And reality is gray. I’m 26 years old, and I’ve been a widow for two years. It’s my fault, of course. Instead of getting married at an early age, I should have done as everyone else does: screw around with every guy in Paris age 20 to 35, then settle down later with a nice Parisian, met on Tinder. Without the rose-colored glasses, that’s likely what I would have done.
With this snow, I would love to cancel my evening out with Samantha and her new friends. But if I back out one more time, she’ll worry, call my mother and create unnecessary drama. Everyone will re-enter “intervention” mode and tell me to “consult.” I saw a therapist for one year. The result (in my unexpert opinion): Me: 1. Depression: 0.
It’s true that I still have difficulty breathing when I walk in front of a park and see a couple sitting on a bench. We never went on vacation during August. David worked in a souvenir shop, and summer was his busiest season. I met up with him for lunch, we would buy crappy sandwiches at an overpriced café along the rue de Rivoli. We would sit on the green, metallic chairs surrounding the fountain in the Jardin des Tuileries. We would watch the children play with paper boats in the water. We would talk about our future, potential baby names and buying an apartment. That’s where we met, where he asked me to marry him and where I said “yes.”
Today, I often make detours of several kilometers just to avoid that green and gold gate. I haven’t been near it since the accident. I’ll never go back. I don’t think I could stand seeing the Jardin des Tuileries without the rose-colored glasses. It would be too painful. I guess I’m not doing that well after all.
I force myself to get dressed. I apply a thick layer of concealer to hide the dark circles, and a coat of mascara. This outing, if I behave somewhat normally, will earn me two or maybe even three weeks of peace.
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