It was my first night in Paris. Candles flickered and the dark air of the café was filled with smoke and jazz. Everyone was older than me. The lone freshman amongst juniors and seniors, I felt one step behind. During our first class on Expatriate Literature, I got lost somewhere between the French Feminists and Deconstruction.
The introductory tour of Paris was a blur - Sacre Coure, the Champs-Elysees, Jardin du Luxembourg, Eiffel tower, Notre Dame, the Seine, The Louvre – they were all muddled together in my mind, shades of black and gray. I had no idea how I would navigate such a huge city for the next three weeks.
I focused intently on the jazz, my glass of red wine, the French being spoken around me and its unfamiliar sounds - alluring and harsh. I couldn’t help feeling that my eighteen-year-old attempt to take charge of my life by doing something bold and adventurous was a big mistake.
As the days passed, I eased into the study abroad experience. I stayed with the group while exploring the city, carefully read the assignments and started to speak both literary theory and French. I learned the differences between the French and American Feminists and the relationship between Deconstruction in literature and the larger arts community. I read Gertrude Stein, Hemmingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, developing a kinship with those famous Americans living in Paris. As I walked the same narrow streets that had been their muse, their protection, and their raison d’être, I soaked in the promise of Paris. And even though I’d never studied French, it looks a lot like Spanish, which I had studied. I found I could read a menu even if I couldn’t pronounce the words.
Needless to say, I became a Francophile within days. And it wasn’t just Paris, it was crêpes.
Despite my initial feelings of naïveté, I felt a growing sense of my independent self in Paris. It began in earnest the day I decided to venture out alone into our neighborhood. I pulled on my gray wool coat, tied my scarf smartly around my neck in the French style and walked confidently out the front doors of the Hotel Trianon Rive Gauche into the Latin Quarter.
Turning onto Boulevard St. Michel, I walked past a patisserie. Scrumptious desserts lined the window and the smell of croissants wafted out the door. I passed a lingerie boutique with delectable desserts of a different kind displayed suggestively on the mannequins. Further up the street was a small market with large baskets of fresh fruit and flowers positioned near the entrance. The Café Le Luxembourg was filled with Parisians leisurely sipping coffee and reading books in the atrium facing the Jardin du Luxembourg.
As I turned the corner, I was engulfed in a smell so warm and sweet that I had to stop. A small stand was tucked under the awning of a confectionery shop just a few feet away. It was a crêpe stand. During our student orientation, we had been warned about eating food from street vendors, but as I looked from the menu to the batter bubbling on the griddle, I was ready for the risk.
Bonjour Mademoiselle, man behind the griddle greeted me. Crêpe Sucre, I immediately responded, surprising myself with the clarity in which the words flew out of my mouth. I sounded, well, French.
The man nodded without any recognition of the significance of this moment we were sharing. He poured enough batter to thinly coat the large, round griddle. It sizzled as it started to steam and bubble in the crisp, January air. With the skill of a master, he quickly flipped the crêpe, slathered it with butter and sprinkled it with sugar. And with three swift movements of his spatula, the crêpe was no longer a thin pancake on the griddle, but a smooth triangular pastry in a paper liner. I exchanged a handful of francs for my crêpe. We both smiled as I turned to walk away.
Across the street was one of the many entrances to the Jardin Le Luxembourg and I could see an empty bench just on the edge of the garden. I dodged Renaults and Volkswagens as I crossed the street and claimed my place on the bench. I breathed in the scent of my crêpe, the foliage and the smell of diesel thinking that it was the perfect trifecta.
I watched people hustle by, hunched against the brisk wind and listened to the smooth, rhythmic cadence of the French language around me. I bit into my crêpe, letting the butter and sugar melt on my tongue, and I found that the language that was so foreign a few weeks earlier was now soothing and familiar. I couldn’t help feeling that this was what being independent was all about. Letting the sweet taste of a new experience overwhelm your senses and surround you. Simultaneously losing and finding yourself in a moment, in a crêpe, in a garden, while enjoying each luscious bite.
To appear in the anthology Let Them Eat Crepes (eatingcrepes.com)
Sunday, June 14, 2009
3AM
I.
There is a crash and the house vibrates. My eyes shoot open and a flash of lightening illuminates the room for a second. The eyes of my dolls are eerily open, watching. A deafening boom follows the light and it repeats within seconds. The thunder and lightning occur almost simultaneously. The rain pelts the sky light in my room – so loud it is like hail, so loud it almost dulls the bursts of thunder. I pull the comforter up to my chin and breathe in, out, in, out. It is just a storm, I’m safe. I repeat the mantra in my mind over and over again. With each flash of lightening, I swear I see things moving in the corners of my room. Fearsome things lurking, waiting to pounce. In, out. In, out. I force my breath to be slow, steady. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep. I think pleasant thoughts – summer days doing cannon balls at my grandma’s pool, racing around the block on my purple banana seat bike, slurping icy root beer floats at the drive in. I feel my grip on the comforter start to loosen, the tightness in my chest starts to dissipate. I no longer have to consciously slow my breath. The storm rages on and I slip into a dream.
II.
Your breath is steamy in my ear. Your tongue traces along its edge and ends at my lobe. You hold it in your mouth. It is wet, hot. You move to my neck, gently teasing my skin with your teeth. You smell earthy; a combination of rum, sweat and cologne. I run my hands under your shirt and feel your chest, trace the outline of your pecks. I lift it up over your head and press my lips against yours. I feel light headed: the last glass of wine and desire simultaneously fogging and heightening my senses. Dido’s crooning and our labored breathing is all I hear. The candles on the dresser and the nightstand flicker. You pull off my shirt and fumble with my bra. Then, in one smooth movement, you cradle me onto your bed, brush the long strands of dark hair out of my eyes and kiss me. I unbutton your jeans and push them off of your legs with my foot and then slide out of my own. We are naked moving, hips tilting, grinding – hard, pressing into each other. Pushing, building, frantic until we release.
III. I feel your tiny hand on my breast as we rock, snuggled in the glider in the nursery. It is dark except for a sliver of moonlight that shines through the opening where the curtains meet. The only sound is the rush of the wind through the trees outside and the rhythm of your sucks and swallows. You roll the nipple on my left breast between your thumb and pointer finger with your right hand, absently fondling your food source. I wince and remove your hand while tucking my nightshirt tighter around that nipple so you can’t pinch it. I rest my head against the padded chair and close my eyes. I rock us back and forth; my feet perched on the edge of the footrest. Your fingers and open palm lightly caress the skin between my sternum and left breast. Your eyes are closed, lips fluttering, jaw working. You stop. My nipple, moist with milk, slips out of your mouth. Your face is peaceful, content. Your hand rests on my heart. I imagine the comfort that courses through your small body as you feel the familiar thud-thud, the music of the womb. I hold you a little longer, enjoying your weight in my arms, the quiet darkness of the night, your soft, sweet scent.
There is a crash and the house vibrates. My eyes shoot open and a flash of lightening illuminates the room for a second. The eyes of my dolls are eerily open, watching. A deafening boom follows the light and it repeats within seconds. The thunder and lightning occur almost simultaneously. The rain pelts the sky light in my room – so loud it is like hail, so loud it almost dulls the bursts of thunder. I pull the comforter up to my chin and breathe in, out, in, out. It is just a storm, I’m safe. I repeat the mantra in my mind over and over again. With each flash of lightening, I swear I see things moving in the corners of my room. Fearsome things lurking, waiting to pounce. In, out. In, out. I force my breath to be slow, steady. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep. I think pleasant thoughts – summer days doing cannon balls at my grandma’s pool, racing around the block on my purple banana seat bike, slurping icy root beer floats at the drive in. I feel my grip on the comforter start to loosen, the tightness in my chest starts to dissipate. I no longer have to consciously slow my breath. The storm rages on and I slip into a dream.
II.
Your breath is steamy in my ear. Your tongue traces along its edge and ends at my lobe. You hold it in your mouth. It is wet, hot. You move to my neck, gently teasing my skin with your teeth. You smell earthy; a combination of rum, sweat and cologne. I run my hands under your shirt and feel your chest, trace the outline of your pecks. I lift it up over your head and press my lips against yours. I feel light headed: the last glass of wine and desire simultaneously fogging and heightening my senses. Dido’s crooning and our labored breathing is all I hear. The candles on the dresser and the nightstand flicker. You pull off my shirt and fumble with my bra. Then, in one smooth movement, you cradle me onto your bed, brush the long strands of dark hair out of my eyes and kiss me. I unbutton your jeans and push them off of your legs with my foot and then slide out of my own. We are naked moving, hips tilting, grinding – hard, pressing into each other. Pushing, building, frantic until we release.
III. I feel your tiny hand on my breast as we rock, snuggled in the glider in the nursery. It is dark except for a sliver of moonlight that shines through the opening where the curtains meet. The only sound is the rush of the wind through the trees outside and the rhythm of your sucks and swallows. You roll the nipple on my left breast between your thumb and pointer finger with your right hand, absently fondling your food source. I wince and remove your hand while tucking my nightshirt tighter around that nipple so you can’t pinch it. I rest my head against the padded chair and close my eyes. I rock us back and forth; my feet perched on the edge of the footrest. Your fingers and open palm lightly caress the skin between my sternum and left breast. Your eyes are closed, lips fluttering, jaw working. You stop. My nipple, moist with milk, slips out of your mouth. Your face is peaceful, content. Your hand rests on my heart. I imagine the comfort that courses through your small body as you feel the familiar thud-thud, the music of the womb. I hold you a little longer, enjoying your weight in my arms, the quiet darkness of the night, your soft, sweet scent.
It Takes Two
When she asked Bill about the scar on his cheek, he grimaced and self-consciously or lovingly touched the tip of his finger along its rigid surface. He shrugged his shoulders and looked away, his eyes seeing something more vivid than the harvest moon, rising against the clear Midwestern sky. She followed his eyes, but couldn’t see anything. She couldn't see the clear green glass of the bottle as it approached the side of his face, couldn’t smell the bitter beer, couldn’t feel the pain as the flesh on his cheek ripped and his bone fractured, couldn’t hear the thud when his body hit the floor. She couldn’t absorb the shock when he opened his eyes in the emergency room, felt his face and knew that his life would never be the same again. At sixteen, he would never go back home.
He didn’t know why he held onto this information so viciously. He couldn’t get his mouth to form the words to tell her that his face was a souvenir from the last time he saw his father. He knew it was wrong to keep something like this from her. He knew that it bothered her, but he still couldn’t tell her. If he wanted to feel good about it, he convinced himself that he didn’t want to burden her. If he wanted to feel bad about it, he convinced himself that he was selfish. If he didn’t talk about it, the pain would eventually disappear. The scar would no longer hold meaning. Perhaps that was it. Every time he caught himself tracing those lines, he felt something that vacillated between nostalgia and rage. He was torn between love and pain.
The quiet of the night and his silence grated on her nerves. His unwillingness to open up had been driving a wedge in their relationship for years. She felt the familiar lump of anger in the pit of her stomach steadily start to rise.
She looked at the bushes, the flower beds illuminated by the small circle of light coming from the porch where they sat, each in their own Adirondack chair. She looked beyond the glow, not needing her eyes to see the large expanse of their manicured lawn, the towering trees, the white fence, the long, winding driveway leading to the highway. They had built the perfect home, the perfect yard, the perfect life.
She looked up into the blue black sky; its few visible stars sparkling like beacons. On any other night, this is when the calm would descend. Drive the resentment back down into her bowels. The vastness would comfort her. Remind her of her insignificance, how unimportant her problems are in the grand scheme of the universe. Tonight, she does not feel comfort.
“Diane?” Bill turned his eyes towards his longtime partner and it was her turn to look away. It was like a dance, their predictable avoidance, like new lover’s glances. But this time, she didn’t look away, refused to dance their dreadful tango. She let him look into her eyes and feel her pain.
He didn’t know why he held onto this information so viciously. He couldn’t get his mouth to form the words to tell her that his face was a souvenir from the last time he saw his father. He knew it was wrong to keep something like this from her. He knew that it bothered her, but he still couldn’t tell her. If he wanted to feel good about it, he convinced himself that he didn’t want to burden her. If he wanted to feel bad about it, he convinced himself that he was selfish. If he didn’t talk about it, the pain would eventually disappear. The scar would no longer hold meaning. Perhaps that was it. Every time he caught himself tracing those lines, he felt something that vacillated between nostalgia and rage. He was torn between love and pain.
The quiet of the night and his silence grated on her nerves. His unwillingness to open up had been driving a wedge in their relationship for years. She felt the familiar lump of anger in the pit of her stomach steadily start to rise.
She looked at the bushes, the flower beds illuminated by the small circle of light coming from the porch where they sat, each in their own Adirondack chair. She looked beyond the glow, not needing her eyes to see the large expanse of their manicured lawn, the towering trees, the white fence, the long, winding driveway leading to the highway. They had built the perfect home, the perfect yard, the perfect life.
She looked up into the blue black sky; its few visible stars sparkling like beacons. On any other night, this is when the calm would descend. Drive the resentment back down into her bowels. The vastness would comfort her. Remind her of her insignificance, how unimportant her problems are in the grand scheme of the universe. Tonight, she does not feel comfort.
“Diane?” Bill turned his eyes towards his longtime partner and it was her turn to look away. It was like a dance, their predictable avoidance, like new lover’s glances. But this time, she didn’t look away, refused to dance their dreadful tango. She let him look into her eyes and feel her pain.
Side Effects
“I can’t do this. I can’t handle the waiting part. I just can’t.” It’s 3 in the morning and Gaby is wearing the kind of desperation on her face that only surfaces in the middle of the night.
“Maybe you don’t have to.” I notice a set of clippers on the counter near the sink. “Why don’t you do it?”
“What? Shave my head? Are you crazy?”
“Think about it. If you do it now, you are in control. You don’t have to wait around until it falls out. No more getting up to stare at your pillow, no more freaking out. If you do it now, then it’s done and YOU did it.” I am convinced it’s the right thing to do; the take charge thing to do. But I can’t help thinking – what if it was me? What if I was going through chemotherapy? Could I do it?
Without a word, Gaby picks up the clippers and turns them on. The buzz fills the silence in the room until it is all I can hear. With a look of concentration on her face, she hovers just above the center of her forehead and plunges ahead leaving a patch of white behind. A reverse mohawk – a skunk’s stripe. There is no going back now. She lines up to the right of the gap and cuts again. Then to the left. Again and again and again; her expression never changes. She is watching herself intently in the mirror, looking through rather than at herself. I am hypnotized by the constant hum and her intensity.
She shaves until only one chunk of hair remains, to the left of her right ear. “Can you do it?” Her question startles me. I take the clippers from her, their vibration filling my hand and creeping up my arm. I take a breath, focusing on the sensation of the air filling and leaving my lungs.
“Face me.” My voice sounds strangely distant. She turns, looks at me and then closes her eyes.
“Do it. Quick.” It is a command. I lean in; gently place the guard against her skin with my right hand while holding her hair in my left. I run the clippers through it – they move quickly with little resistance. It’s done. I shut off the clippers. It takes my ears a moment to adjust to the silence.
“What do you think?”
Gaby opens her eyes and turns to the mirror. There is a half circle of hair on the floor around her – luscious, long locks of dark hair splayed Medusa-like on the white tile. I’m still holding the last clump in my hand. She is beautiful. There is a quarter of an inch left, just enough to create a shadow. Her head is perfectly shaped and without hair, her blue eyes are stunning. Her cheeks are flush. She runs a hand over her head.
“I feel like a different person. I feel strong – like I can do anything.”
“Maybe you don’t have to.” I notice a set of clippers on the counter near the sink. “Why don’t you do it?”
“What? Shave my head? Are you crazy?”
“Think about it. If you do it now, you are in control. You don’t have to wait around until it falls out. No more getting up to stare at your pillow, no more freaking out. If you do it now, then it’s done and YOU did it.” I am convinced it’s the right thing to do; the take charge thing to do. But I can’t help thinking – what if it was me? What if I was going through chemotherapy? Could I do it?
Without a word, Gaby picks up the clippers and turns them on. The buzz fills the silence in the room until it is all I can hear. With a look of concentration on her face, she hovers just above the center of her forehead and plunges ahead leaving a patch of white behind. A reverse mohawk – a skunk’s stripe. There is no going back now. She lines up to the right of the gap and cuts again. Then to the left. Again and again and again; her expression never changes. She is watching herself intently in the mirror, looking through rather than at herself. I am hypnotized by the constant hum and her intensity.
She shaves until only one chunk of hair remains, to the left of her right ear. “Can you do it?” Her question startles me. I take the clippers from her, their vibration filling my hand and creeping up my arm. I take a breath, focusing on the sensation of the air filling and leaving my lungs.
“Face me.” My voice sounds strangely distant. She turns, looks at me and then closes her eyes.
“Do it. Quick.” It is a command. I lean in; gently place the guard against her skin with my right hand while holding her hair in my left. I run the clippers through it – they move quickly with little resistance. It’s done. I shut off the clippers. It takes my ears a moment to adjust to the silence.
“What do you think?”
Gaby opens her eyes and turns to the mirror. There is a half circle of hair on the floor around her – luscious, long locks of dark hair splayed Medusa-like on the white tile. I’m still holding the last clump in my hand. She is beautiful. There is a quarter of an inch left, just enough to create a shadow. Her head is perfectly shaped and without hair, her blue eyes are stunning. Her cheeks are flush. She runs a hand over her head.
“I feel like a different person. I feel strong – like I can do anything.”
Innoculated
You squirm the moment you hear the crinkle of the paper on the examination table. I hold your arms firmly at your sides and try to meet your eyes as I whisper tender words and give you haphazard kisses as you shake your head from side to side. Your eyes are frantic with panic; every fiber of your 19 pound, 30 inch body is struggling to escape. Your father holds your legs while the nurse sticks you with a syringe, efficiently pushing fluid into the muscle of your left thigh.
One – your screams raise a notch.
Two – breathing borders on hyperventilation.
The nurse moves to the right thigh and delivers the last dose, dabs each puncture mark and covers them with bright blue Snoopy band aids. It is over.
I wrap you in my arms. You hiccup and continue to whine as we gingerly put on your pants, socks and shoes. You bury your face in my shoulder; wrap your arms around my neck and your legs around my waist as we walk through the clinic to the car. Our soothing “it’s okay,” and “no more owies” don’t seem to dull your pain. Or ours. As you snuggle in closer, looking for comfort at my breast, I find no comfort in the knowledge that this isn’t the last time we’ll make you cry.
One – your screams raise a notch.
Two – breathing borders on hyperventilation.
The nurse moves to the right thigh and delivers the last dose, dabs each puncture mark and covers them with bright blue Snoopy band aids. It is over.
I wrap you in my arms. You hiccup and continue to whine as we gingerly put on your pants, socks and shoes. You bury your face in my shoulder; wrap your arms around my neck and your legs around my waist as we walk through the clinic to the car. Our soothing “it’s okay,” and “no more owies” don’t seem to dull your pain. Or ours. As you snuggle in closer, looking for comfort at my breast, I find no comfort in the knowledge that this isn’t the last time we’ll make you cry.
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