escaped convict; when I was home the righteousness of a
cloistered nun. It felt familiar.
I had to go to the bathroom all the time. The more I dreaded the outhouse, the more I had to go. I planned outings to cafes, to use the bathrooms there. I knew which cafes
in my part of town had clean bathrooms, with seats, and
which ones had stand-up Turkish toilets. If I timed it right I
could go to the best cafe in town, the Regent, anesthetize
myself with steamed milk, go to the bathroom, and make it
home for a night of dreams. When I walked home from the
cafe it was pitch black and sometimes a clochard, a bum,
yelled obscenities at me. I was too lost in my thoughts to be
scared.
The room became my world. Clean sheets once a week. I
began to recognize the people on my street: the man with
no arms, the tabac lady with the patchwork shawl, the old
concierge and his creaking keys, and Papillon, the pharmacist around the corner. My room and I were together now;
night and morning rituals established themselves with
pleasantly passing weeks. The bidet was no longer exotic; I
soaked my tired feet in it. I had a wool shawl that I wrapped
around my nightgowned shoulders and that transported
me into timelessness. I put the shawl on to read: Le Pere
Goriot, about a nineteenth-century boardinghouse, and Les
Liaisons dangereuses, about a woman who controls her world
through letters but is destroyed in the end. My room could
exist in any century, in any French city.
The administration of the California program arranged all
kinds of outings and connections for us students. I babysat
for a rich family who lived in a modern house. Their floor
was made of polished stones. I was invited to a chateau and I
wore my best dress, ready to discuss literature. I got there
and my French hosts greeted me in sneakers. They were
growing Silver Queen corn in their backyard, and they
wanted a fourth for tennis. Of all the Americans in my group the one they liked best was the freckled jock who could
hardly speak French and went everywhere on his ten-speed
bike. I was waiting to be rewarded for my good French, but
he got all the attention. He was having fun playing the American mascot, while I was doing all the hard work of learning
their language and what I thought were their social customs.
I would have been ready to pose as the Marlboro Man to
get the kind of attention he got from the French. But I had
veered off in the other direction; I was trying to be French.
Besides, I knew his ploy wouldn't work for me: a girl can't
be a Marlboro Man.
I was always watching and pretending, pretending and
watching. I met a guy from Colorado. We were sitting at the
French student restaurant together and I was peeling my
pear so carefully, he said, he didn't know I was American.
We went to the French student restaurant to meet people
but no one spoke at the table, just peeled their fruit and left.
This guy (his name is gone) and I made up stories instead of
going to bed together (we weren't supposed to go to bed
with each other: we were on our junior year abroad). In one,
I would be a prostitute who specialized in American men
wanting to meet French girls. The joke would be that I
wouldn't be French at all. We figured out where I would
have to go and what I would wear and say, and what they
would say. He would be my proxenete, the entrepreneur, and
we would make tons of money and live well.
He went off and found a French girlfriend, a real one, and
the next time I saw him they were on his moped, her arms
around his waist, her hair in one of those high French pony
tails waving in the breeze. When he saw me he waved
proudly, a little sheepish to have me see him like that in the
middle of his fantasy. I waved back and laughed.
I wanted to travel on my own, be brave, but I wasn't. I was
always afraid of making a faux pas. I took a taxi to the train
station to catch a train and I opened the taxi door just as a car
was
cloistered nun. It felt familiar.
I had to go to the bathroom all the time. The more I dreaded the outhouse, the more I had to go. I planned outings to cafes, to use the bathrooms there. I knew which cafes
in my part of town had clean bathrooms, with seats, and
which ones had stand-up Turkish toilets. If I timed it right I
could go to the best cafe in town, the Regent, anesthetize
myself with steamed milk, go to the bathroom, and make it
home for a night of dreams. When I walked home from the
cafe it was pitch black and sometimes a clochard, a bum,
yelled obscenities at me. I was too lost in my thoughts to be
scared.
The room became my world. Clean sheets once a week. I
began to recognize the people on my street: the man with
no arms, the tabac lady with the patchwork shawl, the old
concierge and his creaking keys, and Papillon, the pharmacist around the corner. My room and I were together now;
night and morning rituals established themselves with
pleasantly passing weeks. The bidet was no longer exotic; I
soaked my tired feet in it. I had a wool shawl that I wrapped
around my nightgowned shoulders and that transported
me into timelessness. I put the shawl on to read: Le Pere
Goriot, about a nineteenth-century boardinghouse, and Les
Liaisons dangereuses, about a woman who controls her world
through letters but is destroyed in the end. My room could
exist in any century, in any French city.
The administration of the California program arranged all
kinds of outings and connections for us students. I babysat
for a rich family who lived in a modern house. Their floor
was made of polished stones. I was invited to a chateau and I
wore my best dress, ready to discuss literature. I got there
and my French hosts greeted me in sneakers. They were
growing Silver Queen corn in their backyard, and they
wanted a fourth for tennis. Of all the Americans in my group the one they liked best was the freckled jock who could
hardly speak French and went everywhere on his ten-speed
bike. I was waiting to be rewarded for my good French, but
he got all the attention. He was having fun playing the American mascot, while I was doing all the hard work of learning
their language and what I thought were their social customs.
I would have been ready to pose as the Marlboro Man to
get the kind of attention he got from the French. But I had
veered off in the other direction; I was trying to be French.
Besides, I knew his ploy wouldn't work for me: a girl can't
be a Marlboro Man.
I was always watching and pretending, pretending and
watching. I met a guy from Colorado. We were sitting at the
French student restaurant together and I was peeling my
pear so carefully, he said, he didn't know I was American.
We went to the French student restaurant to meet people
but no one spoke at the table, just peeled their fruit and left.
This guy (his name is gone) and I made up stories instead of
going to bed together (we weren't supposed to go to bed
with each other: we were on our junior year abroad). In one,
I would be a prostitute who specialized in American men
wanting to meet French girls. The joke would be that I
wouldn't be French at all. We figured out where I would
have to go and what I would wear and say, and what they
would say. He would be my proxenete, the entrepreneur, and
we would make tons of money and live well.
He went off and found a French girlfriend, a real one, and
the next time I saw him they were on his moped, her arms
around his waist, her hair in one of those high French pony
tails waving in the breeze. When he saw me he waved
proudly, a little sheepish to have me see him like that in the
middle of his fantasy. I waved back and laughed.
I wanted to travel on my own, be brave, but I wasn't. I was
always afraid of making a faux pas. I took a taxi to the train
station to catch a train and I opened the taxi door just as a car
was
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