7 years ago...Conversation with God
I walked into a cafe around the corner from my hotel. I had been eyeballing this place all week, and a few days before I went back to reality, I finally built up the nerve to get inside and enjoy a legendary hot chocolate. I was in Paris by myself, on my first real big trip away from everyone and everything. I had reached the point of comfort where I could really see myself walking through the streets on a regular basis, and as I inhaled deeply the smell of baked goods fresh from the oven, I rationalized ways for me to move here outright.
The pastries, oh the pastries, the image of the pastries lined up in a row staring at me sticks in my head to this day. Bande de fruits. Palmiers. Financiers. The ubiquitous croissant. I hesitated, staring at the massive options. I settled on a croissant and a tart. I spent the last few meals eating tarte tatins for dessert, and wanted to give another dessert a try. I sat by the window, watching the world go by, and after a while stared at the Louvre in the distance.
The madame brought me a bowl of hot chocolate, Merci, and I inhaled it deeply. I learned over the last few days that what we lack as Americans is a headlong embracing of sensuous things, not in a sense of sex, for the things we think are luscious are often tied to the nether regions, but sensuous things like the scent of baked goods, the appreciation for crisp pizza, and how wonderful a cup of hot chocolate really is. i don't know that I have time to think about the simple things in life back at home. I opened up my notebook and started to think about what to write. It seemed fair enough that the topic of amazing hot chocolate would be good. Or we'll see what pops up.
I stalled in drinking my hot chocolate. Part of me didn't want to finish because well, that would mean it's all gone, but also because that would draw to an end my time in this quiet space. The tart was to die for. And I would never accept a mediocre croissant from Costco again.
I finished my cup, much to my dismay, and I asked two tourists to take my picture for my album. I was already amassing scraps, business cards, tickets to here and there. It was going to be a big album. I gathered my things, and walked out of the patisserie, and saw a flood of children playing near the petanque grounds. A small girl in a red coat ran up to me and said, "Konichiwa!"
It was like a little snap to the forehead. Here I was in my French reverie, only to be kindly reminded that I was clearly not one of..them. I leaned down and spoke to her in french: "Bonjour, cherie, mais je ne suis pas japonaise, je suis americaine." Hello, but I'm not Japanese, I'm American. She giggled. I smiled, and kept walking to the metro. The sound of an accordionist filled the tubes leading to the platform. Today I was off to Pere-Lachaise cemetary. The metro was arriving, proceeding from a warm gust of air whipping by me.
I turned the knob on the door and stepped into a train. Because it was after the rush hour, I found the train empty enough for me to find a bench with two free seats. The other passengers stared out the scratched windows, listened to portable music players, read the paper. The horn sounded, indicating that the doors were going to close. A young man leapt through last minute and took a seat across from me.
*all in french, mais oui*
What's it like? he asked me.
"It's like being everywhere yet nowhere. I feel like Paris has embraced me, called me as one of her own, made me feel at home. it's hard to explain." I pulled a string out of my sweater. It came loose in my fingers and I tossed it aside.
And home?
"I feel that I have never understood home until now. What that means, who they are, who I am."
Stay or go?
"Is it ever that easy to choose?"
You tell me. He blinked twice, sat back in the seat and twisted a braid in his fingers. He looked at me and smiled. i smiled in return.
"Why is it that we always meet like this? Whenever I have a question, you appear. Whenever I asked you for an answer, you ask me a question back. It's rather confusing." I didn't know whether or not to be angry or sad. The door at the front of the car opened. A man with a guitar scanned the crowd, and looked around to see if there was a place to pause. He found one behind my young man, and started to play. I listened to the tune and relaxed.
He sang, Sometimes the questions are the answers/and the answers lead to more questions/Don't chase just stand still/and find you know everything there is to know /if you stop to listen
I smiled. The boy still sat across from me, mouthing the words, singing along at times. I marvelled for a minute and wondered if I knew the song. The train rumbled along, taking passengers at Tuileries, dropping off others at Rivoli.
An older woman entered the car and stood behind the guitarist, humming along. She looked at me and said, "Are you listening, lady? That song was for you." Everyone in the car turned to look at her, and then they looked at me. Boring holes into me, actually.
"What does the universe want for you?" a voice from the rear of the car shouted.
"The answer isn't in the stars." another older woman whispered behind me.
"It's in your hand." a sad little girl in a headscarf and pink sweatshirt and pants said.
"The kind of answer that doesn't get lost in the sand!" beamed a teenager with braces and ruddy red cheeks. She clutched a cd player in her hand. Everyone in the car laughed.
"How do you know?" I asked. The car was silent for a minute, then that loud laughter again broke the silence. People laughed with their heads tossed back, while others giggled into their hands. A businessman looked askance at me on the other side of his paper, Le Monde.
"How could you not?" they all shouted. At me. Eyes wide open, I understood. Sensing this, the crowd burst into applause, and I got up to my stop, Champs-Elysses. Standing up, I tugged my coat down, and shook hands with the boy. The guitarrist burst out in La Marseillaise, and everyone started singing at the top of their lungs. As I stepped off the train, I turned to watch them leave, and they were waving back at me, still singing. I could hear them howling as the train raced down the tunnel, and the cool breeze chased after it and touched my cheek for good luck.
Voodoo