Trekking thru the snow to get to sand

The plane began its descent and seemed to stay in an eternal gray-white cloud that chased us until the screech of the tires screamed our arrival to this snowy land. The white fog seemed to hover above the blanket of snow with a kiss and float away with the wind.

I stepped out of the plane and Sweden grabbed my cheeks like a long lost great aunt and squeezed them hard until I popped my collar to protect from the cold kisses.  I carefully tip-toed across the ice into the terminal and got a very cheerful “Merry Christmas!” from the American woman I had sat next to on the plane. Gina was originally from Wisconsin and had met her Swedish/French husband of 15 years at a coffee shop in Sweden almost 20 years ago while she was backpacking across Europe. “I made him chase me. That’s the secret, you know, “ she said with her golden hair and fur coat.  We gabbed like an episode of Sex and the City and she talked about her weekend in Paris for her little girl’s 9^th birthday with another Swedish mother/ daughter duo.
I sat next to her, enveloped by her perfume. I wanted to be her husband, or son, or servant. She smelled like a Swedish goddess.  She must have seen her potent fumes taking their charm and snapped me back to reality.

She leaned into me and lowered her voice as if to make a real human connection, “This is a bullshit my dear, I’m just a Wisconsin girl who saw her stars align and lassoed a rope to ‘em and have been holding on tight ever since. Wisconsin is my real home.”

We mainly talked about the U.S. I needed a good helping of home somehow…even if it was from a Yankee. However, as the distance grows between you and your home, the connections with other Americans grow that much closer. We both mourned a little bit since we were missing our first Christmas at home. She always takes her girls to Wisconsin, she told me.

            I scurried into the terminal and followed the pictures of a bus to my next stop. Thank god for pictures because the Swedish language looks like English but with a lisp and limp. I was an hour outside of Stockholm and boarded the bus to Stockholm City Central at 2:20 P.M. like Arby told me to. I sat down as the bus started pulling off. I had flown into a winter wonderland. Brown outlines of branches struggled to peak out from behind their Christmas robes.  The sky almost blended into the ground. I was warm in my coat. I laid my head on the window and the lull of the engine sang me to sleep.

I could feel my mouth open as i dangled on the very edge of a deep slumber, and that embarrassing horror rushed over me like it does in public places. I debated whether to open my eyes and just continue to rest, but I felt like I had been asleep for ages.  I opened my eyes and was horrified to see nothing. It was pitch black. I spun my head around, “Did I miss my stop and I am now in the middle of god forsaken Swedish country!!!!!!!!???” It was just 2:20 P.M when we had left. I fumbled like a mad man in my pocket for my phone to check the time.
“Please dear baby jesus on a reindeer, what’s going on?” I checked my phone and it was 3:05 P.M.  I was suddenly smacked in the head with the realization. Okay okay, the sun sets very early here in the winter.  I sat back with a sigh of relief that I was not going to have to make the sequel to “Into the Wild.” 

Finally, we came over a hill and Stockholm’s city lights were reflecting off the surrounding water. We pulled into the bus station and my eyes panned the place for Arby. I hadn’t seen him for 4 years. He was my very first college roommate and we played soccer together at my University. The last time I had seen him, I had dropped him off at the airport. He was terribly homesick and on crutches. He had broken his knee in a game and taken it as a sign to return home to Sweden where it was just he and his mother.

I was looking for a stocky, handsome Armenian. His parents are Armenian, grew up in Iran and moved the family to Sweden just before Arby was born.  Quite the cultural mix. His mother spoke no Swedish before they moved here and she still spoke no English.

We trekked through the snow on the way from the train station to his house. I walked up to the door with red and orange glow of candles flickering in the window. I could see the light bounce off the glasses on the set table. I entered and she had a great big smile, a fur scarf and a red sweater. She was strikingly beautiful. I had no idea what to expect but it was easy to tell that the boys must have been driven crazy by her in her youth. She said something to me in Swedish and we gave the awkward hug you give when you have never met but it would be more awkward to shake their hand….i thought about kissing her hand but more as of a joke, but that thought soon passed with the fear of a strong Middle Eastern slap in the face. We sat down for dinner. I was starved.  We passed the plates and Arby’s mom kept asking me questions as if I was fluent in Swedish and I looked their dumb and hopeless until Arby finished chewing his food and translated. Mumbled words trying to push past chicken and rice “she wants to know if you had a good flight.”

“Yes” I said with a smile.  She knew “yes” luckily. Arby was a horrible translator. She continued to rattle out the questions and I was on my 3^rd helping of awkward silence. Just smile, look busy, glare at Arby.

Finally I told Arby laughing, “Please for the love of god, translate for this poor woman.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I had my mouth full.”

We finished up dinner and I walked through the house. It was a museum of trinkets collected in her 65 years from her home country of Armenia, where she moved to in her youth in Iran, where she loved to visit in Egypt. She loved flowers. Real flowers, fake flowers, patterns of flowers were everywhere. She was a stickler about saving electricity so most of the house was lit with candles and the occasionally dim lamp. The house had a reddish orange glow to it with all the candles and it reflected off the glass sphinxes and the odds and ends that littered the glass cabinets.

We sat down with a glass of red wine. Arby’s mom sat out bowls of almonds and pistachios she had brought back from Iran when she had visited earlier that month. “Oh that was a grave mistake, Lady” I thought to myself. "I will eat every one last of these." However, I resisted the best I could. Arby and I caught up over sips of wine while his mother watched an Armenian soap. The wine was putting me to sleep and I could feel the exhaustion from the travel setting in deep to my eyes. I glanced over to Arby’s mom and she was asleep in her chair. She was on her thrown, the Queen of Trinkets. The light from the television flashed with each changing scene and reflected on her earrings. I sat my glass on the table and told Arby goodnight as I walked to my bedroom missing my mother, imagining she was asleep watching a show herself. 

Tis The Season....

Poissy has been gray skies with the rare ray of sunshine. Only street lights reflect off the river these short days.  The cold colors of gray, black, and brown blend from sky and trees to brick and sidewalk. Shifting shapes hide behind black coats, gray jackets. Black birds break through the low laying clouds and toss up the freshly laid blanket of leaves. You walk through, crunch the leaves under your feet and the birds scatter. 

Winter is earth’s season of solitude

It strips its trees bare, and draws the curtains at the most ungodly hour. It turns the ground cold and brown. Flowers die and animals burrow. Birds mock with squawks hundreds of feet above you and fly south past you and your human legs that will never soar to flee the cold.

You look up at the graceful strokes of feathers of freedom to warmth as you stumble over the bitter wind that slaps you to the reality that you must face the cold. It is your burden to bear. It comes with the seasons, the cycle of wonders and shit. Only birds escape and we’ll never fly. We walk, and slowly, especially went your joints are frozen and your bones shutter with ice.

But we continue on. Can you imagine a winter without holidays? The coldest months without Christmas or New Years?

I don’t think it is a coincidence that we have created seasons in the winter for us to deny ourselves the time to be alone.  We rarely do. We are social animals that crave touch.

We dress up dead trees with lights, doors with red ribbon, our house with smells of cinnamon and pine needles. We crave life and color at all times and cannot handle the bitter reality that the winds do not chime with sounds of carols but voices who crave to be happy write ballads of happiness.

We created Christmas at the dead of winter to relieve the cycle earth gave to us. We need family and presents and smells and sights to cope with the season.

And for those people that can’t forget about the death, we created a New Years, a holiday where you drink yourself stupid and forget about the year you couldn’t defeat the inevitable. You start over, fresh, with promises of making yourself better.

This year will be better.

I highly doubt it unless you know that winter is coming again. Soon. 

P.S. I live with a Nazi

I live with a handful of people and each one of them have their own unique personality.

Michele – early 50s (French) is a terribly generous Crazy Uncle that will give you the shirt off his back even though he probably has never washed it.  He is a white, chubby 5’9” witho about 3 to 4 teeth in his mouth. I’ve always wanted to know why. But I can’t imagine starting up that conversation. “Bonjour Michele, what are you up to today? Oh by the way, why do you have 3 teeth?”

Farida –late 40s (French/Algerian) is the Fun Aunt with a quick sense of humor who loves to mother the younger roommates. She cleans and cooks often and will always make the time to sit down and have a conversation with you. She is a caramel color with dark black hair. She has the face of a smoker and the voice to match. She loves to laugh.

William- 23 (French) is basically like my brother. We give each other a hard time all the time. We are relentless with insults which has really expanded my vocabulary. He is patient with me and always corrects me and explains the reason for the grammar structure or pronunciation.  He is a tall and strapping in stature- easy on the eyes. But he is shy and quiet. He reminds me of a horse.

Dalal-21 (French/Moroccan) is like that friend where you go out to lunch and feel so close to and have a deep conversation, only to call them later that week and they make you feel like you are bothering them---the fickle type. She cried to me 2 weeks ago about a co-worker she had strong feelings for and a couple days later we were both in the kitchen and she basically walked in and walked out with the smallest salutation. I take it with a grain of salt.  She is beautiful- olive skin and curly black hair. She has striking eyes. One time while we were on a train ride from St. Lazarre to Poissy, we saw this woman drawing a sketch of her on the train. It freaked Dalal out but I told her to take it as a compliment.

Emma- 22 (English) is one of my closest friends in the apartment. Of course its expected since we don’t have to work very hard to express our feelings. Although from time to time we like to laugh at each other’s colloquial language. I keep trying to mock her accent but she always tells me it pure merde. She has a dry sense of humor that I am usually drawn to in people. We do our laundry and grocery shopping together. We make a good lil errand running team. She is a tall, pale 5’10”. I encourage her to wear flats. She wears glasses and has very long, straight light brown hair.

The Black Guys (Sengal/French)-17 and someone old enough to have a 17 year old son. The younger kid actually plays for the youth team for PSG which is pretty incredible. He is a nice quiet guy that gave me one of his soccer balls which is actually from the PSG team. He is probably 5’9” and thin and athletic. His dad,  who literally looks like his older brother lives in the same room as his son. He is very kind although has such a thick accent that I have a very difficult time understanding him. It is west African French—Imagine the French language trying to beat box. He is the same height as his son and could easily pass for 27. I try not to think about it because honestly I start to think how there is some weird drug cartel or illegal something or another. But they just look so close in age!

Judith- 19 (Scottish) is the living epitome of naivety. She loves to talk. You will be standing in the doorway with about a centimeter of the door cracked open explaining how you are tired and going to bed and she will continue to stand there and tell you about the book she read but didn’t finish because she got bored and started watching TV and was wearing a pink shirt and craving chocolate and wanted to date a vampire. She is a curvy 5’3” with a constant rouged cheek and brown hair to her shoulders. She has the best room in the apartment—a beautiful view of the river and a larger room with built in shelves. I find myself getting jealous and thinking how unfair it was that she has that room. It’s real sandbox envy.

Miaou- somewhere between 16 and 35. (Chinese)—so I have no idea.  I neither know nor see too much of Miaou but I  feel like I do. She happens to be Emma’s neighbor and I get a story about Miaou from Emma everyday about how loud Miaou is at 6 a.m. “My god, she blow dries her hair for an hour. I wish there was a bullet in that hair dryer.” This is why I love Emma. I asked Miaou her age once and you’d think I asked for the “ainshant chinese secret” She said she came from China 5 years ago to study. But that really told me nothing.

The Guy in Glasses –early to mid 20s(French?). I have never gotten a response from him no matter how many times I have said “Bonjour.” He walks into the kitchen. Pops in his frozen dinner.Ding.! And walks out.  He is close to 6 feet. I know that not everyone can be a talker but it kind of creeps me out.

The Thief—between 0 and 99 yrs old (any nationality). Someone has stolen two bottles of my milk, a bag of chips and 5 pain au chocolats. Someone stole a whole plate of Michele’s leftovers and some eggs. Someone stole Dalal’s bottle of milk and emma’s yogurt. I even wrote on my milk bottle last time “PAS POUR LE VOLEUR” (not for the thief) and he must have stolen it out of spite. I have been on a 2 week long investigation that has led me to one conclusion :the thief is not lactose intolerant.

P.S. I live with a nazi.

Nazi- Wallid late 30s but looks like he and death have fooled around a couple of times (Saudi Arabian). He is a doctor (OBGYN) at the hospital at Poissy. Imagine the crazy scientist from Back to The Future, paint him a nice khaki brown and give him dark hair and you would have this man spot on.  He doesn’t have too much too say until it comes to proclaiming Nazi doctrine. Yeah, he was sitting at the kitchen table eating some eggs and reading Mein Kampf. No biggie. He hates woman, and jews, and blacks, and homosexuals. Funny that he lives with all of them.  Farida told me that he was talking about how being gay was a type of sickness that couldn’t be cured so there should be a death penalty. I laughed and asked how a “doctor” could think like that. I told her next time she hears him say that he should think again. Even if he did, in his professional opinion, believe that homosexuality was an incurable sickness, why the death penalty? Last time I checked there was no cure for cancer. Did he think we should kill cancer patients too? There is no logic to it. Farida agreed. She said that I shouldn’t worry that because he told her and Dalal that they weren’t real Arabs. Whatever that means. Farida told me that she said if Hitler was alive today and there was an Arab standing next to a Jew that he would just get out a gun and kill both of them. Then she laughed in her smoker laugh and slapped her knee.
I find it so interesting because I have had conversations with Wallid before and he seriously could not stop talking about America and how he really likes Americans and likes the culture. He has told me that he likes me and he always tries to speak English with me. I wonder if he would feel the same way if I told him I was gay. To my knowledge, he doesn’t know. Normally, the activist in me would want me to start an intellectual conversation probing his opinion on the matter and being a face of a “gay man” since he probably has never even met one. But something about the Hitler, Nazi, Mein Kampf book has kept my lil rainbow flag in my pocket.

I’ll let just let this sleeping dog lie.

By the way, he smells like a wet dog.


P.S. If you ever read this Wallid, it was all a joke, and I will claim this to be a fictional piece of writing based on a wild dream I had.  You are great.  And you are my fav.

oh, and i like sauerkraut.

a lil picnic under a family tree

Yesterday, we celebrated another birthday. Charolette was turning 18. It's the biggest birthday celebrated here in france. Michele, the same guy who had thrown me a birthday had made sure we all knew that Tuesday night was scheduled for Charolette.
I walked up to the last floor which has become the room where this family at 6 cours du 14 Julliet has been forming. Michele had bought christmas lights. He was again sporting the tightest french rugby shirt ever fabricated in a chinese sweat shop. He let me know that we were having a Bretagne themed party for Charolette. Bretagne is in the northwest of france and i work with about 5 others at my school who are from there. Michele is from there as well.They must like to breed a lot of people and send them to Paris.
The table was set with some purple flowers in the middle of the table.
The menu consisted of crepes and cider. Michele was making jambon, oeuf, et fromage crepes. Everyone started making there way upstairs one by one. Charolette walked up the stairs with her her grandmother. Charolette had told me her grandmother was coming and i would love here since she was bringing champagne. ( ok, side note: so i have been collecting all the wine bottles i've had from just dinner or parties and they are in my room. i'm not sure why i'm keeping them. I guess i'm having a mild case of hoarder syndrome. I can't get rid of my babies haha.Anyway, william came into my room and saw the bottles and has been calling me an alcoholic ever since. I'm not exactly sure why some jokes stick and others fall off but this was definitely was laced with super glue. Everyone has jumped on board and i'm the new "alcoholic american" (insert french laugh). Thanks William.)

Oh you're grandmother is bringing champagne? How nice.

Yeah, all i knew the alcoholic like you would love it! (insert laugh)

Yeah, like i said. Not sure i get myself into theses things. But i don't feel like this joke is going away soon. So lets just take a shot and run with it :p

Anyway, so we all set at the table. I sat across from Grandma, Martine. She was a sweet woman in her early 60s. She had such an adorable laugh. Charolette's family is from the South and her grandmother had a strong accent. The accent is ironically twangy like the southern accent in the states. For example, pain in Parisien french sounds like "pehn" but in a souther accent it sounds like "paing." It is honestly very noticeable when spoken.
I poked a little fun at the accent and the grandmother took a Dixie Chick stand to defend her accent and said it's REAL FRENCH. Parisiens give southerns a lot of crap about their accent.
Some things are universal eh?

I transitioned into a little story about  boy who grew up in the south and couldn't rid "y'all" out of his vocabulary and moved to the big apple for a summer and heard tons of crap about his southern accent.
I was trying to draw the comparison that I was in fact on the same team as here. Even though i was technically a "yankee" in my accent and lived  in Paris, i would always be a southerner in my heart."

Grandma liked this and poured me another glass of Cider and we toasted to southern culture.

There were 3 bottles of cider on the table and i got a little lesson on how all cider in france comes from the northwest (normandy and bretagne) and thats why we were drinking it tonight.

Michele had brought out his CD collection and put on a french group singing some kind of high tempoed celtic sound. I can't describe it better than that. Emma and I stared at each other with wide eyes as we saw every french person at the table (grandma included) singing along and swaying their heads and tapping their hands on the table. This was apparently a famous song. A chorus of voices filled the air  and made it all the way through the chorus before laughter commenced at Emma's and my face. Then a two minute debate between Michele and Grandma ensued over which singer had had the affair with that model.
"No no, it was the lead singer."
"I'm positive, it was the shorter guy with the beard."
Their debated faded into the noise and i guess i'll never know who had the affair with that model. Kind of felt like home.

All of a sudden, Michele got up and changed the CD and dedicated the next songs to me.

"Oh lord," i thought, "I hope this is note a ballad for alcoholics."

I was wrong. It was classic country.

Michele tried to talk to me about Hank Williams and Patsy Cline but i disappointed him with my lack of knowledge. "Michele these singers are like the founding fathers and mothers of country. They are classics yes but very old. This is not the country i grew up on."

I think I blew his mind.

With Bing Crosby in the background, I sat there across from Grandma Martine and Charolette and watched how Charolette leaned into her grandmother with her laughter and Grandma kissed her head. "You're my beautiful granddaughter." Even though we had formed our only little family here with the misfits of 18 to 45 years olds. Seeing the bond of a grandmother and granddaughter almost took my breath away. Their eyes were set at the same place and both had higher cheek bones. Grandma's hair was no longer jet black like her granddaughter but had turned into a salt and pepper blanket of wisdom.
I swallowed hard and appreciated the moment but missed my grandmother, and my family for that matter.

I'm so grateful for the friends i've made here but nothing matches the touch of your family. A hug, a pinch, a kiss. Someone who you can sit next to and not care if you're legs are touching. I could use a swing on my family tree right about now :)

It was time for cake and candles and happy birthdays. Farida lit the cake and we turned off the lights and she paraded the cake across the kitchen singing "happy birSday to you" in her french accent. Charolette blew out her candles and we split the enormous black forrest cake.

I closed my eyes and thought about my sister who had her birthday the day before. Not saying anything out loud to take away from charolette, i sent out a little thought across the atlantic back to my sister that i was having a little cake for her.

When it rains, it pours

Wednesday I woke up from a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. By the time my arm reached the phone I had already missed it. I checked the voice mail and it was the mother of the student that I had been tutoring.
“Josh, I’m so thankful for the effort that you’ve put in with my daughter but she’s had a change of heart and would like to find another tutor.” The word that she used was “tutrice” So what she meant was that her daughter wanted a woman, not a man for a tutor.

Of course she has a learning disability so I completely understood that she needed to be as comfortable as possible. I remembered her telling me that her other tutor was like her sister and she missed her.

I felt like calling the mother back and leaving a message, “Dear Jane Doe, I will wear a wig and stuff my shirt full of socks. Thanks.”

I tossed the phone down and put the pillow over my head and sighed a very sad sigh. I wanted to go back to sleep, but I was too frustrated. Disappointed. I couldn’t manage to get settled enough. So on my day off, I got up early and walked to the shower.

I stood under the shower. A hot shower can do a person wonders. I stood under the showerhead letting the water hit my head.  Then out of nowhere the showerhead itself fell off the wall and hit me square on top of the head.

This morning was turning out to be a shit show. I should have known then to stay in bed all day. But alas, the story goes on.

I got dressed and walked to the bank because I needed to withdraw some cash. Walked up to my favorite Mrs. Stick Up Your Ass at the bank counter and asked for a receipt of my bank account. She huffed and puffed and handed me a receipt that sais 11 euro.  WHAT?!
“Please check again.”

Huff and Puff. “That is what it is, sir.”

PANIC. Could this day get any worse? What on earth happened to all my money? I racked my brain and I remembered that I rented a bike in the city and the machine said it would take a 150 euro deposit out of my account until the bike was returned. But I had returned the bike. I was positive. That was Saturday and this was Wednesday. Something must be very wrong.I walked back to my apartment with my heart beating and somehow sweating on this chilly day. I called my friend Robert who had lived here for 2 years and inquired about the bike.

“Oh yeah, “ he said, “they don’t put that back for up to a week, man.”

“What the hell?! A week?! I will never bike anywhere again.”

What was I going to do for food? I had 11 euro in Paris and since they even make you pay a breathing tax, I was barely going to make it an hour on 11 euro.

I remembered my sister had sent me a Western Union check that I hadn’t deposited. That would give me about 80 euro and keep me above water till the deposit came back in my account.
I walked to the post office that advertised a Western Union branch.
I had on my black leather jacket and my scarf, the only thing I had bought in France that wasn’t food or alcohol. I would love that 14 euro back and have a cold neck. Like usual, the line was long and minutes ticked by. I was second in line when I looked down at the paper and saw that I needed a piece of I.D.  I was determined to lie through my teeth about how my passport was in a safe at the school I was working and I was a poor little foreigner and give them the puppy dog eyes.
I was next in line and this woman with a little girl probably 5 years old came in front of me and flashed her handicap card at me.

(people in france have cards that prove them to be “old” “handicapped” “a veteran” “deaf” or “blind”….to be honest, the last one isn’t really fair. That person would have no idea what kind of card they were holding up. It could be a picture of an alien eating an Ice cream cone.)

The little girl with her had a tumor on her cheek. But she didn’t let that stop her from having the most beautiful smile. In my shitty day, I was not having to deal with a large mass on my face. And she had a smile for god’s sake.  They stepped in front of me and the little girl turned around and cupped her hand next to her mouth and whispered slowly,  “Excuse us.” It was the most adorable thing. I cupped my hand and whispered back “Don’t worry, “ and she smile and said with the most serious face “Okay, sir.”  She turned around and giggled.

The little girl affected me. She was so cute.

Finally I made it to the counter and the puppy dog charm worked and I handed them my money order and they said that they couldn’t take the order there. I needed to go into Paris proper to receive the money.  As humans do, I forgot the smile of the little girl  in about 5 minutes and I was again wearing a frown. I took the train into the city and went to western union after western union. I was being sent on a wild goose chase. “Go here, they will do it for you.” “Sorry, we don’t do that here.” “Nope, not here.” Finally a genius told me the main office for Western Union was in front of the Louvre. I briskly walked the location that had all the answers supposedly.

It was closed. It was 4:15 p.m. and it was closed. I put my head and hands on the glass and the glass squealed as my hands slowly slid off the glass.

My brain was numb with frustration.  I turned around and I was directly in front of the Louvre and Tuileries Gardens. A black and gray cloud had rolled in and the wind picked up and blew my scarf. I walked into the gates of the Garden to take in the view. This is the best view in the city if you are on eye level.  You are facing west and it’s a complete straight shot to the Champs Elysee and you can see the whole garden, the Eiffel tower to the left, place de concorde and Arc de Triomphe. It’s quite breathtaking. I started to walk west.
If you stood still and panned your eyes a complete 360 degrees you would see a rubber band of bright blue on the horizon. This would be just a passing storm cloud. It started to sprinkle and of course I had no umbrella. I started to laugh out loud with the irony of the dark cloud looming over my head. In the distance, i could see the wall of water rushing towards me so I decided to take shelter under a tree that hadn’t lost all of its leaves. I stood there leaning against the trunk, looking at the red and yellow victims of fall that I was shuffling with my feet. I people watched and took note of a couple with their arms wrapped in each other to make enough a room under their blue umbrella, a business man holding a newspaper over his head who must have been just as caught of guard. Within 10 minutes, the rain had stopped. I started walking towards Place de Concorde. I zig zagged and hopped over the fresh rain puddles and passed a fountain with a flock of seagulls bathing and squacking  along side ducks who were dipping there heads in the water and shaking off their feathers.
I made it to the Place de Concorde. I walked across the cobbled stone and stood at the pedestrian walk across from the Metro. I was headed back home. It was a busy intersection and I stood there thinking about how shitty my day was and I was just ready to jump in bed and do a proper pity party.
Then, a flash of light bounced off the cars passing by and I turned around and there it was –the sun.
It was majestic with its size and power and it turned from night to day. The city sparkled from it’s recent shower. I stood there and let the sun envelope me.  I could barely see anything because it was so bright. I saw the outline of the Eiffel Tower and the fountains and the Obelisque. And I smiled. It was so beautiful I snapped a photo.
A thought entered my head and my problems washed away next to my feet with the little river in the gutter down the sewer drain. …
“Oh yeah, I live in Paris.”

When it rains, it pours

Wednesday I woke up from a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. By the time my arm reached the phone I had already missed it. I checked the voice mail and it was the mother of the student that I had been tutoring.
“Josh, I’m so thankful for the effort that you’ve put in with my daughter but she’s had a change of heart and would like to find another tutor.” The word that she used was “tutrice” So what she meant was that her daughter wanted a woman, not a man for a tutor.

Of course she has a learning disability so I completely understood that she needed to be as comfortable as possible. I remembered her telling me that her other tutor was like her sister and she missed her.

I felt like calling the mother back and leaving a message, “Dear Jane Doe, I will wear a wig and stuff my shirt full of socks. Thanks.”

I tossed the phone down and put the pillow over my head and sighed a very sad sigh. I wanted to go back to sleep, but I was too frustrated. Disappointed. I couldn’t manage to get settled enough. So on my day off, I got up early and walked to the shower.

I stood under the shower. A hot shower can do a person wonders. I stood under the showerhead letting the water hit my head.  Then out of nowhere the showerhead itself fell off the wall and hit me square on top of the head.

This morning was turning out to be a shit show. I should have known then to stay in bed all day. But alas, the story goes on.

I got dressed and walked to the bank because I needed to withdraw some cash. Walked up to my favorite Mrs. Stick Up Your Ass at the bank counter and asked for a receipt of my bank account. She huffed and puffed and handed me a receipt that sais 11 euro.  WHAT?!
“Please check again.”

Huff and Puff. “That is what it is, sir.”

PANIC. Could this day get any worse? What on earth happened to all my money? I racked my brain and I remembered that I rented a bike in the city and the machine said it would take a 150 euro deposit out of my account until the bike was returned. But I had returned the bike. I was positive. That was Saturday and this was Wednesday. Something must be very wrong.I walked back to my apartment with my heart beating and somehow sweating on this chilly day. I called my friend Robert who had lived here for 2 years and inquired about the bike.

“Oh yeah, “ he said, “they don’t put that back for up to a week, man.”

“What the hell?! A week?! I will never bike anywhere again.”

What was I going to do for food? I had 11 euro in Paris and since they even make you pay a breathing tax, I was barely going to make it an hour on 11 euro.

I remembered my sister had sent me a Western Union check that I hadn’t deposited. That would give me about 80 euro and keep me above water till the deposit came back in my account.
I walked to the post office that advertised a Western Union branch.
I had on my black leather jacket and my scarf, the only thing I had bought in France that wasn’t food or alcohol. I would love that 14 euro back and have a cold neck. Like usual, the line was long and minutes ticked by. I was second in line when I looked down at the paper and saw that I needed a piece of I.D.  I was determined to lie through my teeth about how my passport was in a safe at the school I was working and I was a poor little foreigner and give them the puppy dog eyes.
I was next in line and this woman with a little girl probably 5 years old came in front of me and flashed her handicap card at me.

(people in france have cards that prove them to be “old” “handicapped” “a veteran” “deaf” or “blind”….to be honest, the last one isn’t really fair. That person would have no idea what kind of card they were holding up. It could be a picture of an alien eating an Ice cream cone.)

The little girl with her had a tumor on her cheek. But she didn’t let that stop her from having the most beautiful. In my shitty day, I was not having to deal with a large mass on my face. And she had a smile for god’s sake.  They stepped in front of me and the little girl turned around and cupped her hand next to her mouth and whispered slowly,  “Excuse us.” It was the most adorable thing. I cupped my hand and whispered back “Don’t worry, “ and she smile and said with the most serious face “Okay, sir.”  She turned around and giggled.

The little girl affected me. She was so cute.

Finally I made it to the counter and the puppy dog charm worked and I handed them my money order and they said that they couldn’t take the order there. I needed to go into Paris proper to receive the money.  As humans do, I forgot the smile of the little girl  in about 5 minutes and I was again wearing a frown. I took the train into the city and went to western union after western union. I was being sent on a wild goose chase. “Go here, they will do it for you.” “Sorry, we don’t do that here.” “Nope, not here.” Finally a genius told me the main office for Western Union, in front of the Louvre. I briskly walked the location that had all the answers supposedly.

It was closed. It was 4:15 p.m. and it was closed. I put my head and hands on the glass and the glass squealed as my hands slowly slid off the glass.

My brain was numb with frustration.  I turned around and I was directly in front of the Louvre and Tuileries Gardens. A black and gray cloud had rolled in and the wind picked up and blew my scarf. I walked into the gates of the Garden to take in the view. This is the best view in the city if you are on eye level.  You are facing west and it’s a complete straight shot to the Champs Elysee and you can see the whole garden, the Eiffel tower to the left, place de concorde and Arc de Triomphe. It’s quite breathtaking. I started to walk west.
If you stood still and panned your eyes a complete 360 degrees you would see a rubber band of bright blue on the horizon. This would be just a passing storm cloud. It started to sprinkle and of course I had no umbrella. I started to laugh out loud with the irony of the dark cloud looming over my head. In the distance, i could see the wall of water rushing towards me so I decided to take shelter under a tree that hadn’t lost all of its leaves. I stood there leaning against the trunk, looking at the red and yellow victims of fall that I was shuffling with my feet. I people watched and took note of a couple with their arms wrapped in each other to make enough a room under their blue umbrella, a business man holding a newspaper over his head who must have been just as caught of guard. Within 10 minutes, the rain had stopped. I started walking towards Place de Concorde. I zig zagged and hopped over the fresh rain puddles and passed a fountain with a flock of seagulls bathing and squacking  along side ducks who were dipping there heads in the water and shaking off their feathers.
I made it to the Place de Concorde. I walked across the cobbled stone and stood at the pedestrian walk across from the Metro. I was headed back home. It was a busy intersection and I stood there thinking about how shitty my day was and I was just ready to jump in bed and do a proper pity party.
Then, a flash of light bounced off the cars passing by and I turned around and there it was –the sun.
It was majestic with its size and power and it turned from night to day. The city sparkled from it’s recent shower. I stood there and let the sun envelope me.  I could barely see anything because it was so bright. I saw the outline of the Eiffel Tower and the fountains and the Obelisque. And I smiled. It was so beautiful I snapped a photo.
A thought entered my head and my problems washed away next to my feet with the little river in the gutter down the sewer drain. …
“Oh yeah, I live in Paris.”

Wednesday I woke up from a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. By the time my arm reached the phone I had already missed it. I checked the voice mail and it was the mother of the student that I had been tutoring.
“Josh, I’m so thankful for the effort that you’ve put in with my daughter but she’s had a change of heart and would like to find another tutor.” The word that she used was “tutrice” So what she meant was that her daughter wanted a woman, not a man for a tutor.

Of course she has a learning disability so I completely understood that she needed to be as comfortable as possible. I remembered her telling me that her other tutor was like her sister and she missed her.

I felt like calling the mother back and leaving a message, “Dear Jane Doe, I will wear a wig and stuff my shirt full of socks. Thanks.”

I tossed the phone down and put the pillow over my head and sighed a very sad sigh. I wanted to go back to sleep, but I was too frustrated. Disappointed. I couldn’t manage to get settled enough. So on my day off, I got up early and walked to the shower.

I stood under the shower. A hot shower can do a person wonders. I stood under the showerhead letting the water hit my head.  Then out of nowhere the showerhead itself fell off the wall and hit me square on top of the head.

This morning was turning out to be a shit show. I should have known then to stay in bed all day. But alas, the story goes on.

I got dressed and walked to the bank because I needed to withdraw some cash. Walked up to my favorite Mrs. Stick Up Your Ass at the bank counter and asked for a receipt of my bank account. She huffed and puffed and handed me a receipt that sais 11 euro.  WHAT?!
“Please check again.”

Huff and Puff. “That is what it is, sir.”

PANIC. Could this day get any worse? What on earth happened to all my money? I racked my brain and I remembered that I rented a bike in the city and the machine said it would take a 150 euro deposit out of my account until the bike was returned. But I had returned the bike. I was positive. That was Saturday and this was Wednesday. Something must be very wrong.I walked back to my apartment with my heart beating and somehow sweating on this chilly day. I called my friend Robert who had lived here for 2 years and inquired about the bike.

“Oh yeah, “ he said, “they don’t put that back for up to a week, man.”

“What the hell?! A week?! I will never bike anywhere again.”

What was I going to do for food? I had 11 euro in Paris and since they even make you pay a breathing tax, I was barely going to make it an hour on 11 euro.

I remembered my sister had sent me a Western Union check that I hadn’t deposited. That would give me about 80 euro and keep me above water till the deposit came back in my account.
I walked to the post office that advertised a Western Union branch.
I had on my black leather jacket and my scarf, the only thing I had bought in France that wasn’t food or alcohol. I would love that 14 euro back and have a cold neck. Like usual, the line was long and minutes ticked by. I was second in line when I looked down at the paper and saw that I needed a piece of I.D.  I was determined to lie through my teeth about how my passport was in a safe at the school I was working and I was a poor little foreigner and give them the puppy dog eyes.
I was next in line and this woman with a little girl probably 5 years old came in front of me and flashed her handicap card at me.

(people in france have cards that prove them to be “old” “handicapped” “a veteran” “deaf” or “blind”….to be honest, the last one isn’t really fair. That person would have no idea what kind of card they were holding up. It could be a picture of an alien eating an Ice cream cone.)

The little girl with her had a tumor on her cheek. But she didn’t let that stop her from having the most beautiful. In my shitty day, I was not having to deal with a large mass on my face. And she had a smile for god’s sake.  They stepped in front of me and the little girl turned around and cupped her hand next to her mouth and whispered slowly,  “Excuse us.” It was the most adorable thing. I cupped my hand and whispered back “Don’t worry, “ and she smile and said with the most serious face “Okay, sir.”  She turned around and giggled.

The little girl affected me. She was so cute.

Finally I made it to the counter and the puppy dog charm worked and I handed them my money order and they said that they couldn’t take the order there. I needed to go into Paris proper to receive the money.  As humans do, I forgot the smile of the little girl  in about 5 minutes and I was again wearing a frown. I took the train into the city and went to western union after western union. I was being sent on a wild goose chase. “Go here, they will do it for you.” “Sorry, we don’t do that here.” “Nope, not here.” Finally a genius told me the main office for Western Union, in front of the Louvre. I briskly walked the location that had all the answers supposedly.

It was closed. It was 4:15 p.m. and it was closed. I put my head and hands on the glass and the glass squealed as my hands slowly slid off the glass.

My brain was numb with frustration.  I turned around and I was directly in front of the Louvre and Tuileries Gardens. A black and gray cloud had rolled in and the wind picked up and blew my scarf. I walked into the gates of the Garden to take in the view. This is the best view in the city if you are on eye level.  You are facing west and it’s a complete straight shot to the Champs Elysee and you can see the whole garden, the Eiffel tower to the left, place de concorde and Arc de Triomphe. It’s quite breathtaking. I started to walk west.
If you stood still and panned your eyes a complete 360 degrees you would see a rubber band of bright blue on the horizon. This would be just a passing storm cloud. It started to sprinkle and of course I had no umbrella. I started to laugh out loud with the irony of the dark cloud looming over my head. In the distance, i could see the wall of water rushing towards me so I decided to take shelter under a tree that hadn’t lost all of its leaves. I stood there leaning against the trunk, looking at the red and yellow victims of fall that I was shuffling with my feet. I people watched and took note of a couple with their arms wrapped in each other to make enough a room under their blue umbrella, a business man holding a newspaper over his head who must have been just as caught of guard. Within 10 minutes, the rain had stopped. I started walking towards Place de Concorde. I zig zagged and hopped over the fresh rain puddles and passed a fountain with a flock of seagulls bathing and squacking  along side ducks who were dipping there heads in the water and shaking off their feathers.
I made it to the Place de Concorde. I walked across the cobbled stone and stood at the pedestrian walk across from the Metro. I was headed back home. It was a busy intersection and I stood there thinking about how shitty my day was and I was just ready to jump in bed and do a proper pity party.
Then, a flash of light bounced off the cars passing by and I turned around and there it was –the sun.
It was majestic with its size and power and it turned from night to day. The city sparkled from it’s recent shower. I stood there and let the sun envelope me.  I could barely see anything because it was so bright. I saw the outline of the Eiffel Tower and the fountains and the Obelisque. And I smiled. It was so beautiful I snapped a photo.
A thought entered my head and my problems washed away next to my feet with the little river in the gutter down the sewer drain. …
“Oh yeah, I live in Paris.”