The last thing I wanted to do on that cool Parisian evening in the middle of summer was to have dinner with an American.
“Menu anglais?” the sixty year old waitress asked me after ushering us onto a tiny table for two.
“Main non!” I exclaimed my annoyance, offended that she had assumed I had no knowledge of the language even after I had addressed her in French.
Inside the tourist-filled restaurant, the tables were packed close. An American lady of a certain age was dining alone. With almost no command of the French language, she was trying to order a clear soup with plain bread. She gave specific instructions for the soup and insisted on little condiments. I don’t want any pepper in it. Does it have too much salt? Don’t give me too much salt. She then ordered plain water much to the old waitress’ scornful eye.
Mr Gemini and I looked at one another and withheld the mutual eye rolling. Typical American shouting her specific orders in Europe. By that stage of the trip, we had come across many of her compatriots with similar attitudes. Give me this, and that’s how I want it. It even went as far as demanding a “decaf” in a Roman stand up espresso bar.
The American must have sensed something in our restrained body language. She turned towards us and explained that she had taken ill the day before and could barely keep anything down. We nodded, smiled and wished her well.
When in France, I like to indulge in regional specialities, and when I saw aligot on the menu, a speciality of the Auvergne region, my choice of accompaniment was made. Aligot is made with a mixture of potatoes mashed with melted Tomme cheese and garlic. Its smooth and almost elastic texture was enough to induce mouth-watering on command.
The American lady was served her soup, but not before she quizzed the waitress to its contents again. When our main course was delivered with the awaited aligot, she pointed to it praising the dish and its culinary qualities. She had ordered it the night before and wished she could eat real food on her last night in Paris instead of the bland soup in front of her.
Her comments invited discussion. She was well-versed with French food, specialities and most of all travel, so with three common points of interest, the three of us engaged in conversation. She spoke of her life with passion and gusto, the exotic places where she had lived and travelled, the remote parts of Turkey, Laos and North Africa, recounting many experiences with her now deceased husband. She was full of joie de vivre as well as a touching dash of nostalgia. Life did not offer them any children, and with his line of work as an industrialist, they had been nearly everywhere around the globe together.
“But Paris is the city. The family wanted to give me a reunion in the states for my birthday. I said I wanted to see Paris. One more time. Just in case I am no longer mobile and able to travel.”
Paris… One more time. I remember thinking that I could easily become her in my later years.
Over dessert, two Armagnacs and a glass of water, the American, Mr Gemini and I toasted to travel, and what it brings us.
The best memories of voyages to distant and exotic lands aren’t in the awe inspiring monuments we see or the natural beauty of a land that we snap with our camera. What remains etched in our mind, stirring emotions when reminiscing are the unexpected pleasures we get out of the inspirational people we meet. They add that personal dash of colour to our palette and leave their indelible signature on our travel canvas.
I often think of the American with a dose of melancholy. I hope she never grows ill that she is housebound, unable to spread her wings and enjoy her passions in the spirit she and her husband had planned.
I hope you will never become an armchair traveller or take a virtual trip via a computer.
… boots and elegant winter scarves; multiple facial piercings on twenty-somethings; the ubiquitous spaghetti marinara on plates and menus; crisp mornings with a welcome stillness in the air; café trottoirs and restaurants with outdoor gas heaters; generous servings and warm service; vibrant city centre abuzz with an eclectic mix of people; single red rose sellers in restaurants; night-lit buildings and an eerie green glow of old trees;
… food lovers who have cast the waif-starved look with flashy flesh exposure in favour of more rotund figures; tight narrow lanes that are open to traffic; helpful locals ready with a smile and a sense of humour; decadent shopping arcades with European flair; long strips of eateries vying for business by soliciting for patrons not unlike here and enticing customers with free bottles of wine with dinner;
… a calm stretch of water where the sea meets the sky in a powder blue finish that locals call a beach; preservation and restoration instead of demolishing and modernisation; skinny leg jeans tucked into stylish long boots; caked-on foundations on pale skins of young pencil-like figures; patrons huddling around tiny square tables; outdoor smokers and smokers in open air dining;
… redefining the cosmopolitan label with young men in white shoes, numerous Kwik-E-Marts and a lot of Indians, authentic Italian restaurants with Lebanese owners, and foreign accents such as Italian, French, Greek, Indian and overheard alongside English; small cafés that are licensed for alcohol; perfect lattes but no white sugar; cyclists, cars, pedestrians and trams cohabiting the streets; free wifi hotspots and more…
The over-inflated suitcases are weighed at Charles-de-Gaulle airport. The ground crew personnel shakes his head. “Trente six (36) kilos! Is too much.” I gulp at the thought of paying for excess luggage. He gives me a look laced with Gallic charm and says, “Take some thing out and put in your hand luggage.”
I rummage through the suitcase and remove weighty objects. Magazines, brochures, paper stuff. Done. Why do I collect so many memories? Cosmetic pouches. Done. Shampoo. Conditioner. No. Winter coat. Yes. I conceal the lingerie I purchased in Paris. The suitcase is reweighed. “Voila!” It gets his nod of approval.
In the departure lounge, I distribute the items into two pieces of hand luggage, the laptop bag and the small carry on case with wheels. I open one of the cosmetics bag and stifle a curse. I have accidentally picked up the one with my collection of nail polish. Including nail polish remover.
Acetone. On a flight that prohibits any liquids.
I decide to toss the acetone in the poubelle (bin) but my French manicure nail polish set is not for airport bins. I’m going to take my chance. I distribute some other items in the laptop bag and squeeze the long and thin fuchsia pouch in the wheelie case.
The invitation to board is announced. Two security personnel are conducting hand searches ahead. Mr Gemini and I line up in an Indian file patiently awaiting our turn. My heart races as both ground crew call us over simultaneously. We approach together. I’m carrying the laptop case, Mr G is carrying the wheelie case.
I lay the laptop bag on the table and unlatch the clip. Security Man 1 picks up a small bottle of decongestant nasal drops and asks, “Prescription?” I shake my head. “I have a blocked nose.” He snickers and puts it back.
I glance to my right. His colleague, Security Man 2, is searching the wheelie case and checking every cosmetic pouch. He raises an amused eyebrow, nudges the other and lets out a loud, “Oh la la… regarde-moi ça! (What do we have ‘ere?)”. He then holds up the bottle of red nail polish to eye level, gives Mr G a curious look and says, “Verrry nice…” with a heavy French accent.
Mr G retorts, “No, no… it’s not mine!”
The security personnel cross their arms in synchrony, shake their heads and smile facetiously.
I intervene, trying not to laugh. “C’est à moi! We’re together…”
But they play their part well. And I feel as if I’m standing in the midst of a popular French comedy.
The passengers who have witnessed the show give Mr G curious looks and laugh. The bottles of nail polish are passed with a shrug that could only mean, We’ll let them deal with it at the other end.
As I board the plane with my belongings intact, I smile at the French attitude and wonder if their British counterparts could match their sense of humour.
My eyelids flutter open as an unfamiliar tinkle disturbs my deep slumber. I stare at the ceiling, my mind a complete void. The annoying jingle tickles my awareness. The bedside phone is ringing. It’s the wake up call. No… it’s the hotel reception desk. The taxi to Charles-de-Gaulle airport is waiting downstairs.
I shake him awake and he slowly turns away and grumbles as if that was a nudge for having had too many red wines the night before.
“It’s 6.30 am! Missed the wake up call!”
“Er… what wake up call?”
Merde! The one he forgot to set. We bolt out of bed. There are showers to be had, final packing to do, squeezing last minute purchases into over-inflated suitcases and never mind the obligatory morning brew.
Frantically, I hop in the shower trampling over semi-open luggage. My mind is ablaze with the possibility of missing the flight, what is one to do? As I dry off, my thoughts are peppered with the “what-ifs” of the night before.
Had we not leisurely meandered through the left bank towards boulevard-st-germain after dinner, taking in the sights of nocturnal Paris, encore une fois, one more time. Had we not sat down at Les Deux Magots, and watched the night life in a city that inspires. Had we not ordered Bas Armagnac, and were served a double for the price of a single by a gracious waiter. Had we not recounted the highlights of the trip and with the last amber swill toasted a worthy end to the sojourn abroad. Had we not returned to our hotel late, very late…
I smile as I take one last look around the dishevelled room. Checking out is swift, as one would expect from an establishment that upgraded us to a suite during our entire stay. A taxi is hollered. We squeeze into the back seat of a Peugeot 307 as comfortably as our oversized luggage is laid in the boot. Le Figaro, L’Express and Paris Match magazines peep through the back pocket of the front seat.
It is still early morning. Paris se lève…Paris awakes and the city is enveloped in a dense and static haze. The taxi pierces through the fog at lightening speed, traversing the yawning Seine. Notre-Dame de Paris cathedral stands to my left. I bid my respects to the grande dame just as the sun floats languidly over the low horizon ahead. I glance towards the city one more time.
I love the British. I love the way their accents, inflexion and idioms give them a delightful air of friendliness. From plummy accents that hint at gentry and lineage, to the rugged warmth of the cockney dialect, which admittedly I don’t understand very well, there’s a plethora sounds, an aural seduction that is ever so charming even when they’re giving you directions to get around London by tube.
But make no mistake, as I have on numerous occasions, when I innocently blurted, “What language is he speaking?”, only to be met with a raised eyebrow, a stifled chuckle followed by a prompt and stern correction, “English!” Ah… I could never discern a Scottish accent from an Irish one or a northern English one. Yet I can listen, nod, smile and be totally enchanted like a teenage school girl.
On my first visit to the Great land of Britain, I hated London and its environs. I wasn’t impressed by the locals or their attitudes as if their grey drab skies cast a dull veneer over their personalities. They evoked in me expressions often reserved by them for their counterparts across the Channel. Yet it made no sense when I had many English friends, colleagues and relatives whom I love dearly. Even a major crush of mine was English, Welsh actually, with a seductive Londoner accent to accompany that natural charm and eyes that glittered when they looked at me. Captivating, he was. And I am digressing.
Therefore it came as no surprise that during my last sojourn in Britannia to visit friends and relatives, I chose to make it brief. And it was much to my disappointment again, as it had turned out, I loved London. I witnessed a shift in attitudes and a general bonhomie among its people. Laid back is not a term usually reserved for Londoners but it was one to which the locals themselves have attested.
London has been calling me of late. I shall return again for a longer stay. Even if I have to ask some charming locals for a translation.
– A photographic tribute to London
Snippets of life, whimsical thoughts, and naughty observations as seen through the mischievous eye of a woman who is just at home with Martinis as she is with Caffè Latte.
I love the British. I love the way their accents, inflexion and idioms give them a delightful air of friendliness. From plummy accents that hint at gentry and lineage, to the rugged warmth of the cockney dialect, which admittedly I don’t understand very well, there’s a plethora sounds, an aural seduction that is ever so charming even when they’re giving you directions to get around London by tube.