After just two months, I am single again. Single, and on my way to the most romantic city in the world: Paris. Not that I would know, but I have been told that people hate being there alone. I can remember going to restaurants when I was on a week-long tour in Vegas by myself, and every hostess asked me if I only needed a table for one, and then, after I confirmed their suspicion, they asked me, "Are you sure?"
"No," I wanted to say, "I am not sure. Let me go outside and see if some desperate man or woman wants to be my last-minute date. Maybe I can rustle someone up."
Will Paris be like that? As I write this, I am sitting in a diner at Dallas-Fortworth, where I have my layover, and no one has approached me for service even though it's pretty dead. Am I giving off too sad of a vibe? The world is built for lovers.
Break ups are hard, sometimes even when you are the one walking away.
I need to concentrate on my last-minute French lessons. I always learn some basic phrases to get by in other countries. Before I went to Bali last year, I had ten sentences down and I could ask if something was vegetarian and where the bathroom was. My French lessons have not gone as well. And my Indonesian was mostly wasted: everyone I met spoke English.
People tell me they speak English in Paris, too, but that most people think it is rude for an English speaker to just waltz up to a French person and start speaking English. I get that, and I agree. Sitting in an IHOP in Texas, I went over everything I could remember how to say in French.
Pardonne mois.
Parlez vous English?
Bon jour.
Je m'appelle Amy.
S'il vous plait.
Merci.
Au reviour.
It's a good thing I am not performing music for any French audiences. I always like to talk in between my songs, but evidently I wouldn't have much to say. I will be shooting street fashion with a local photographer, but we've already corresponded in English, so that assuages my fear of speaking with her in person.
There's a sadness in my gut, that will soon undoubtedly be replaced by culture shock and anxiety.
***
On my next flight, I watched a movie called Happy Death Day. The flight attendants had served dinner and I was drinking a glass of wine. I told myself that I would only have one and then try to get to sleep so that I could wake up in France the next morning and be on Paris time. Happy Death Day is a horror flick, and, although there was a romantic subplot, it isn't the type of movie that would normally make anyone cry, least of all me. I have cried at maybe three dramas in my life. I become indignant when the music swells and I get that feeling that the producer is trying to elicit tears from me. "I do what I want!" I say firmly, in my head, to the imaginary producer.
But I digress, Happy Death Day has a scene in which the protagonist eschews her stuck up persona and kisses her love interest in front of her sorority sisters. She smiles a goofy smile and throws herself into it. It took me back to that feeling of shrugging off all of my concerns about getting into a relationship, smiling at someone and telling myself to just dive in. Of course, that didn't work out well for me, seeing as how I am now single, and, at this point, crying on the plane, and waiting for the drink cart to come back around so that I can say "fuck it" and order another glass of wine. I turn to my left, helplessly searching out the aforementioned drink cart, when the stranger I'm sitting next to, a young French woman, looks at my tears and offers, "Would you like my pretzels?"
I thanked her but declined the pretzels, and received another glass of wine shortly after my seatmate's touching display of concern. I drank up the red wine and then dozed off. When I awoke, the flight attendants were back with breakfast and coffee, loudly saying "good morning" to announce their arrival and get all of the passengers into our upright positions in our seats. Drinking coffee, I gazed out the window and realized that I would soon be in Paris. I've never been before, despite having lived in England for two years, and having come back to Europe to travel around other parts a couple times since then. I breathed deep and let hope and wonder fill me. How lucky am I that I get to come to a beautiful city to heal my heart? I asked myself.
***
After two train rides and a long walk to my hotel, I had finally made it to the 17th district where I will be staying all weekend. There are cobblestone streets, and a park, many boutique shops, and a plethora of Italian restaurants for some reason. I dropped off my suitcase at Hotel Le Trente, as it was a bit too early for me to check into my room. I walked around looking something French to eat that might be dairy free and gluten free, but I knew that my options were limited with my dietary restrictions. I had trouble finding anything that looked authentic anyway due to the overabundance of Italian eateries in the neighborhood. My phone was dead at this point so I was unable to do any online research, and I didn't want to wander too far since I couldn't access my google maps app and didn't want to lose track of where the motel was.
I was tired from the jet lag, and so hungry. "Merde", I said to myself out loud, realizing that I do know how to say one more thing in French: shit.
I almost passed another Italian kitchen, and couldn't bare it. If I was going to break my diet, I may as well go whole hog, consume the paragon of cheesy, wheaty foods: pizza!
I drank a glass of chianti and ate my pizza while squished with strangers in a row of small tables. There was a plug behind my seat and I had purchased an adapter on my way to the hotel earlier so I was able to bust it out and get my phone some juice. I took in the sounds of everyone speaking French around me. So far, I had done a good job to say "Bon jour" instead of "hello" and then ask cashiers and hostesses if they spoke English before expressing my needs. I left the restaurant when it was time to check into the motel, saying "thank you" and "goodbye" in French to the wait staff.
After I finally got to take a shower, I put on clean clothes and went shopping and took a walk through the park. I bought a bottle of wine and some snacks and told myself that it would be OK to retire early and have a chill night before exploring other neighborhoods and doing some sightseeing tomorrow. My plan was to take the perishable snacks back to the hotel room, maybe have a bite of them, and then go get a little souvenir shopping done before bedtime. It was five pm, Paris time. I ate some chips, hummus and olives, watching French rap videos on TV in my room. The next thing I knew I was waking up from a five hour nap. Oh no! I will never get on Paris time this way!
I have a propensity to try to stay in a bad dream and wrong the rights, instead of waking up when I'm nearing consciousness. That is how my nap turned into a coma: I kept dreaming of the events leading up to my break up. Now I am soothing myself with snacks, wine and the Simpsons in French. Earlier in the week I had no appetite at all so I am happy to be in the next phase, of eating at all times of the day. Despite having goofed up my sleep schedule, I am feeling grateful that I was not accosted by a sense of culture shock today and that I was able to remember to use my basic French when speaking to strangers. I am so thankful to have this time to write in my hotel. Writing was the main thing I wanted to do in Paris. Perhaps tomorrow I will move my laptop to a cafe. For now I am hoping that the wine I am imbibing will help me fall back to sleep, so that I can attempt again to wake up on Paris time, tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day.
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