I have to preface this blog with a comment regarding children and families on airplanes. Seriously. What the fuck. Do parents really think that I want to hear their child screaming during a trans-Atlantic flight? No. I don't. I don't care how cute and cherubic your little 6 year old is. He's screaming bloody murder and I'm trying to get some sleep so I'm not a total zombie when I land. I have less than zero sympathy when it comes to this type of thing. When I was a small child my parents never let me scream or make a scene so I know it can be done.
And of course it's always the family that you see when you're waiting in line for your ticket. Always. I spotted this kid -or heard him rather- from a mile away. He was clutched to his father who just shooshed him while the mother stood there pushing the luggage. This kid belonged in Guantanamo with that scream it was so torturous. I thought to myself those people are SO going to sit near me on the plane. Lo and behold, they were two rows in front of me and their little stain of a child didn't stop screaming for three hours.
I don't love much about the French but what I do love is that they totally and completely do not give a shit. Halfway through the third hour of screaming -and the parents weren't even doing anything! Not walking the kid around or shoving Benadryl down his throat. They were just sitting there!- the male flight attendant goes sauntering up to the parents and says, "What is going on here?" I couldn't hear what the parents were replying but I could hear the one sided conversation of the flight attendant:
"Your child has been screaming for three hours..."
"People are complaining!"
"So what you're saying is that there's NOTHING you can do? You have no control over your child AT ALL??"
mumbling something in French and then walking away.
I really think that airlines should get the hint and put all families with children in one cabin together. That way they can all torture each other.
The kid finally stopped shrieking but I wasn't able to fall asleep because as soon as the crying ceased the free red wine hit the guy sitting next to me. His wife had taken an Atavan and passed out and he kept talking to the guy in front of him, his travel partner apparently,
"IRA! CHEERS! TO TWO WEEKS IN PARIS IRA!"
Merrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
You're probably wondering why this blog is entitled an Italian in Paris. Well, for one thing I am 50% so it's not like I'm misrepresenting myself, but also it's summer and this is when I get ridiculously tan. Seriously. Being half Italian and half Irish I'm alabaster in the winter and a brown bean in the summer. I'm my own yin and yang!
Well I must've looked like I came over from Capri because everywhere I went people were speaking Italian to me. In Versailles one guy boisterously proclaimed, "BON JOURNO!" as I walked into a gift shop.
I stopped and smiled at him.
"Italian words I don't know. Italian words I don't know. Italian. Italian?"
Me, "...........................(smile)."
"Where are you from Bella?"
"Boston." My sister who travels all over told me to never say that you are an American when you travel abroad because of the current state of affairs in the U.S. Ooops. I flaked.
"Aaaaah you are American. I thought you were from Italy. You look like you could be."
Then he regarded me some more and said, "Or you look like you could be Spanish."
"Well, hola!"
He laughed, I bought a water for 3 Euros then headed to the Palace of Versailles where I would pimp around the gardens for a solid 5 hours before returning to Paris to eat steak frites, drink a bottle of red wine and pass out.
On the second to last day of my trip I had just finished walking along the Seine and stopped to get a crepe at my favorite crepe stand on the Rue Saint Germain Des Pres. I was enjoying the little band that was playing and the grandma who was dancing along when I decided to snap a photo of my favorite cafe, the Cafe Bonaparte.
As I stood on the sidewalk I heard a rumbling behind me. I turned and saw a man who looked like he was in his late 40's. He was speaking to me in French.
Me, "........................(half smile)."
He spoke to me in English, "Where are you from?"
I pulled from my earlier experience at Versailles and said, "Italy" in the most American accent you could've imagined.
"Aaaaah. That is what I would've guessed. Actually I was thinking Mexican but yes..."
He sized me up like a dog would size up a steak before he ripped into it.
Ew. This was not the type of Frenchman I fantasized about having a steamy affair with and then leaving the next day without giving any contact information. No. This was the type of Frenchman people would give to the criminal artist for a police sketch after I went missing.
"Um..."
"Do you speak French?"
"No. Do you speak Italian?"
"No."
*PHEW!* Dodged a bullet there!
He then leaned into me and put his hand on my arm and started to pull me in the direction of the alley.
"Come have a coffee with me."
"No thanks."
"Come have a coffee. I can speak French to you and teach you."
"Thank you but I'm all set."
At this point I started to panic because I thought I was somehow getting pick pocketed. I whipped my phone out of my pocket and said, "I'm getting a phone call. Bye." And I scuttled off back to my hotel.
I stopped in front to make sure that my wallet, passport and gum were all still in their proper places. Everything was there. No pick pockets. Just a gross horny Frenchman. I found out later that "Come have coffee with me" is code for, "Come have coffee with me and then we will have sex together."
The purpose of my Paris adventure was a business trip. I had to go visit a glass factory that was located in Normandy. So on Monday afternoon, Mr. Vadecar picked me up at the hotel and drove me to the country.
Newsflash: no one in the country speaks English. Even when they say they do, they don't.
I was meeting the English speaking engineer from the glass factory but not until 7pm for dinner. It was 4pm when I arrived at the hotel and I refused to sleep. So I sauntered downstairs and asked the petite woman at the front desk who claimed to speak English if she could arrange a taxi to take me into town.
"Where you go?"
"I want to do some shopping?"
"French."
"............."
"FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH........................."
"........."
"..................."
I was starting to get panicky. Clearly I was making no headway with the front desk woman and it would've been so easy to just say forget it, enjoy the lovely day outside in the chateau gardens, take in the flowers and drink champagne. But the guilt was crippling me. I was in the French country side! I had to go sight see! When would I ever get back here!!??
I told the woman to hold on a second and then grabbed my Berry -it made the trip!!- and dialed the number of my sales rep in the US who speaks perfect French. She explained to the woman at the front desk what I wanted to do. I stared at them anxiously as they decided my activities for the afternoon. Front desk woman hung up and then called me a taxi and I sat outside to wait.
The taxi arrived and this hefty woman came lopping over to where I was sitting.
"French French French French Treport French?"
"Oui." I had learned from my French speaking sales rep that I would be going to Treport, a quaint little seaside town about 5 minute drive away. I hopped in the van taxi and off we drove. A few minutes later we were in Treport and she pulled over to the curb. I handed her my Euros and said, "You can pick me up here at 6:30?"
"Uuuuuh....six....uuuh..."
"Thirty. Six thirty."
"........................."
She was wearing a watch so I grabbed her hand and pointed to the 30 hash. "Six...here....."
"Aaah ok! See you at six-sirty."
Treport was beautiful. I stuck my feet in the water and no it was not the beach of Normandy, scene of D Day. But it was so lovely.
At six-sirty I wanted by the corner where I agreed to meet my taxi driver woman. I was enjoying a pistachio and chocolate twist ice cream cone when her van came barreling towards me. Full of other people.
I walked up to the passenger side door and my taxi driver started speaking frantically to me in French and pointing to the back of the van. I didn't comprehend. The entire van was full of people. Did she want me to hop in the way back? Like go through the trunk? I gripped my ice cream cone and started to make my way towards the trunk.
A collective "NO!" came from inside and I went back to the passenger side window where the driver was gesticulating wildly. I smiled and said through clenched teeth, "I have no idea what you are saying."
This went on for a full minute. I could see in the back seat one older than dirt French woman glaring at me and muttering things under her breath while flicking her hands wildly this way and that.
Clam.
Finally. After 90 seconds someone piped up from the back, " 'er 'usband eez right behind us. 'e will pick you up."
I stared at the girl, mouth agape. Really. You couldn't have spoken up earlier when I was ready to tie myself to the roof rack?
"Ok. Ok. Thank you!" I smiled and backed away from the van taxi.
I finished my ice cream in blissful peace while I waited for Mr. Vadecar to come and get me.
The trip went by pretty smoothly after that, save for the creepy French guy incident. Don't get me wrong, the taxi experience was hard core brutal but what do I care? Not like I'm ever going to see those people again. At some point you just have to jump and immerse yourself in the situation. How else are you going to learn?
It does feel good to be home though.
p.s. I am going to China in September. I can't even IMAGINE the oodles of blogs that will come from that trip.