"Bienvenue Chez les Ch'tis"

              After an overpriced but extremely necessary cab ride, an hour wait in Gare du Nord, and a period of helplessness while trying to lug my suitcases onto the train, I arrived in Abbeville, France.  I had received word from Le Proviseur (the principal) that either he or another teacher would be meeting me at the station in order to drive me to my new hometown.  As the train stopped I glanced at the time on my cell phone, 12:45—the train was running 10 minutes late.  I quickly tried to gather my items in order to make it off the train in time and realized that my suitcases, self, and carry-ons would not fit down the aisle in one sweep.  I pulled and pushed, chucked and shoved my way through the seats as two French gentlemen stared and smirked.  Finally after they had had their fun watching me struggle as I laughed at myself and muttered “désolé (sorry)”—for no necessary reason of course—one of them decided to help me. 

                I began to breathe a sigh of relief after successfully unloading my bags, but stopped short and choked on the air instead.  I could not believe my eyes.  It was a luggage-toting-traveler’s worst nightmare…STAIRS!  These were not your everyday, run of the mill, single flight stairs, oh no.  They were far worse.  They were steep and had three levels before they came to a plateau which passed over the train tracks below.  The plateau was followed by a mirrored amount of descending steps—three levels, all steep.  I wheeled my luggage to the very bottom step and stared in bewilderment at the stairs before me.  How the hell will I get these bags up those steps?  As the other passengers continued to file past me carrying their purses, mini-backpacks, or briefcases—I hated them all for traveling light—I started my climb.

                I made it as far as the second step—whoo-hoo for progress—before realizing that it was impossible to drag 150 pounds of baggage up the stairs at such an incline.  By the time I finished wallowing in my failure, all of the passengers had traversed the platform and the train began its departure.  Before it left, the conductor cheekily smiled at me and then shrugged his shoulders, cocked his head, and threw up his hands in a “best of luck, you idiot” kind of gesture.  As the train left the station I decided that the only way to get my bags across the tracks would be to carry one bag up the stairs at a time.  The Myth of Sisyphus?  So I began my Sisyphean deed—one bag down, two, three…just as I was about to carry my second to last bag up to the first level of stairs, a well-dressed man approached.  He smiled and in a quizzical manner that was touched with the slightest bit of certitude said, “You must be Rachel.”

                The well-dressed gentleman introduced himself as “Monsieur Niau, le Proviseur” (the principal) and proceeded to introduce me to his colleague, a “Monsieur Dupuis” the assistant proviseur (the assistant principal).  I graciously made both of their acquaintances and they offered to help me with my baggage.  I apologized (yes, this nasty little habit had followed me across the pond) for my oversized luggage and thanked them for their assistance.  Monsieur Niau spoke in French the entire car ride and he expressed delight at my knowledge of French—he did not know a word of English.  As we traversed the countryside he commented on the size of Friville, the absence of “fun” in Friville, the lack of transportation out of Friville, and on the lack-luster shops of Friville.  I smiled in the back seat and notified him that everything would be fine and that I am a fan of peaceful, quiet, and quaint. 

                When we arrived at the Lycée du Vimeu Monsieur Niau gave me a tour of the establishment.  The school was impressive in size and in structure.  We first toured the “professionnelle” section of the Lycée.  In the Lycée Professionnelle students study a particular trade similar to that of a Vocational/Technical high school.  As we toured the building Niau radiated pride in his work and in his students.  He showed me the metal sculptures some of them had built and he explained how several students were working towards becoming auto mechanics.  Niau gave me a tour of the classrooms where students worked on large factory machinery and then leaned down (yes, not surprisingly I am much shorter than he) to jokingly notify me that no, I will not have to teach about machinery in English. Thank goodness!   Following the Lycée Professionnelle introduction, Niau gave me a tour of the building where I would be working.  The building was half-moon in shape and it housed the administrative offices, the academic classrooms, and the cantine.  In the opening of the half-moon shaped building there was a courtyard and student lockers.  Several students were hanging about the courtyard and all stared as Monsieur Niau—the celebrity of the school—walked by. 

                Following our tour of the building, Monsieur Niau treated me to lunch at the cantine.  As soon as we walked in the door, Monsieur Niau was met with an astonishing amount of handshakes, nods, “Bonjour Monsieurs,” and smiles.   Niau received all greetings warm-heartedly and returned them with mirrored enthusiasm.   I smiled to myself as I pictured him as a rock star who flashes his pearly whites and winks at his beloved fans, causing them to go weak in the knees.  After the greeting party had dispersed, Niau and I wiggled our way to the front of the cantine line (a special privilege reserved for teachers—the ability to cut in front of famished adolescents without getting mauled).   As we worked our way down the impressive assembly line of food, Niau shook hands with the cantine workers and kindly introduced me to all.  

                Cafeteria food in America has absolutely nothing on the delicacies of French cantine cuisine.   The food is arranged buffet style and there are signs notifying how much of each course—yes folks, there are several courses—one should take.  At the beginning of the line you take a tray, ‘real’ utensils, and a ‘real’ water glass.  You then unsurprisingly approach a cart of baguette rounds of which you take three.   Next comes the entrée or appetizer.  There are typically four options—grated carrots in French vinaigrette, paté with pickles, purple cabbage in Dijon mayonnaise, or radishes with sliced hard-boiled egg.   Following the selection of an entrée, you take a dessert—usually yogurt, mousse au chocolat, an éclair, or fruit—and a wedge of cheese.  As with the other courses, there is a variety of cheese from which you can choose and it has been my hobby to taste them all.  I typically choose camembert (which is still reigning champion amongst les autres fromages), Kiri—a spreadable cream cheese similar to Philadelphia, le Petit Moulin noisette—similar to kiri but with chestnuts mixed in, or Boursin—also a spreadable cheese that is infused with garlic and herbs.  After selecting a dessert and cheese course, you move onto le plat principal, or in English, the entrée.  The main course varies from day to day but is always delicious: beef Bourgogne with pasta and roasted vegetables, kebab served atop couscous with a tomato purée, ratatouille—peasant-style vegetables that are roasted and then served atop rice with a gravy reduction, and chicken that is cooked in a mushroom cream sauce.  Following the main course, there is an optional salad or an additional side (my favorites have been stewed leeks and creamed spinach (delicious and ‘oh so healthy’).  In spite of the “overfull” feeling at the end of a French lunch, the idea behind the salad (which is eaten at the end of the meal) is to assist in digestion—you know, introducing some roughage to your dairy laden(cheese, cream sauces, butter)  stomach.

                After overloading my tray with French culinary delicacies, Niau and I made our way to the faculty dining area.  As we traversed the cantine, I noticed that the students would politely stand at attention while Niau passed.  He would greet the students in the same respectful (rock star) manner, with a kind nod of his head in recognition.  The effect of our passing through was similar to the wave at a sporting event—students alternatingly sitting and standing.  I walked next to Niau in astonishment.  When we finally entered the faculty dining area, the quiet hum of “teacher conversation” ceased and all eyes turned to le proviseur.  With great intonation Niau introduced me to his faculty while I nodded and smiled.  They all said “Bonjour” with almost simultaneous precision.  The affect was overwhelming.  I felt very welcomed and was fortunate for having been placed in the company of such wonderful colleagues. 

My New "Chateau"

               Following my surprisingly delectable introduction French cantine cuisine, Niau and I made our way over to my logement.  In preparation for my period abroad, Monsieur Niau and I had corresponded via e-mail about my future job as an English language assistant.  One of our correspondences centered on a discussion about housing and whether or not it would be possible to receive assistance in the housing search.  Our conversation resulted in the proposal of an establishment that was located within the grounds of the “Collège la rose des vents” (the middle school which neighbors the high school) and that I would share the apartment with the two other assistants—another English assistant from Scotland and a Spanish assistant from Columbia.  As a means of quelling any anxiety over the housing issue I graciously accepted the offer without even seeing the proposed apartment. 

                When Niau and I passed through the gate that lead us into the “Collège,” I frantically scanned over the buildings in search of something that looked like a housing facility.  To my surprise I located nothing of the sort—or so I thought.  After meeting with the principal of the collège as well as the gestionnaire—the gentleman in charge of building management and other odds and ends—the four of us—Niau, Madame Lefebvre, Monsieur Ramay, and myself—walked to the apartment.  We walked past all of the buildings Niau and I had seen as we entered the school, and Monsieur Ramay led us to a building that I had previously assumed to be an abandoned classroom trailer—you know, the ones that are readily constructed in American schools when class sizes get too big or over population occurs. 

                As we passed the long, rectangular, metal structure, I gazed at it with searching eyes trying to reveal some underlying “hominess”.  Instead, I saw a one-story, green trailer that was equipped with several industrial sized windows and metal door that was large enough for the admittance of a baby elephant.   After struggling to open the Dumbo-sized door, we filed into a large hallway that opened up to an immense dining/living room.  The inside of the establishment was cold and it felt as if the heaters had not been running for about 45 years.  Along the entrance hallway were four doors.  The first door on the right housed the heater, the electrical box, and shelves for storage.  The second door on the right was a pantry of sorts that currently held cleaning supplies, a mop, a bucket, a broom, a small roll of garbage bags, and two rolls of toilet tissue.  Across from the utility room was the kitchen.  Upon my arrival the kitchen was very sparse—two long sink areas in which one of them was no longer functioning and had been converted into a countertop through the addition of a plank of counter; a classroom cabinet that had been converted into a food and storage pantry, several small cabinets that held dishware and utensils from the previous English assistant, a small refrigerator, a tiny convection oven that could easily be mistaken for a toaster oven, and a dish rack.

                The second door on the left led to the bedrooms of which there were four.  In one of the bedrooms there existed a baby crib that again served as a memory of the former English assistant’s life in Friville—she had very daringly brought her baby with her on her journey to France.  The other three rooms were identical with the exception of one room which came equipped with a sink.  At the end of the hallway was a large bathroom that was furnished with a sink, mirror, and an elevated shower/bathtub.  I may have to get a running start in order for my short legs to clear the edge of that thing!   In a separate room next to the bathroom was the toilet.  At first I found it very odd that the toilet would not be in the same room as the sink—primarily for hygienic reasons—but I learned after frequenting several French homes that this was normality. 

                Although I would not claim the house to be a chateau in any regard I was happy with the establishment.  Upon my arrival nothing in the house had been arranged in any sense—some of the furniture was left askew and there was not any bedding.  Despite its appearance and the absence of some essentials, the flat was clean and had the charm of a dormitory—which I had grown accustomed to after spending three years of my life in Wolfe Hall at The College of New Jersey.  To make myself even more “at home” I was fortunate enough to select the only bedroom with the sink which made me experience déjà vu and the good ol’ days of my Freshman dorm—Wolfe and Travers halls are equipped with sinks inside the dorm rooms; a commodity that is initially overlooked until you realize the benefits of being able to brush your teeth and wash your face in privacy.  So, I began to establish my life in a place that felt familiar amidst the foreignness of culture, country, and language.       

Paris, day II

               Initially, I had had big plans for waking up early on my second day in Paris to run about the jardin des tuilleries like a real local.   Then, as I continued to press the snooze button on my alarm clock, I realized that was just wishful thinking.  Around 9:30 a.m. I finally found the energy to get myself up, get showered, and get dressed before heading out to do je ne sais quoi—I had big plans for je ne sais quoi.  Around 10:30 I found myself at a newspaper stand and successfully located “Le Figaro” before heading to a café for well, a café.  After perusing the paper and sipping casually on my French coffee—a.k.a. delicious diesel fuel—I decided to walk to the Musée D’Orsay to immerse myself in Impressionist art.   

                After standing in line for three hours, I finally made it into the Monet exhibition at the Grand Palais in the Musée D’Orsay.  The exhibit yielded all of Monet’s works—pieces from his early years, pieces from his personal collection, pieces from his later years.   In all, the exhibit told a beautiful story of Monet’s life as a progressing artist.  In pieces it was a snap shot of his thoughts and of his current technique.  One of the more thought-provoking pieces was a painting of his wife on her deathbed.  The painting appeared to be blurry with the slightest presence of a face that was wrapped in what looked like wedding-veil tool.  To me, the painting spoke volumes.  It spoke of love lost, the failure to accept the death of a loved one by shrouding it under a veil, the unclear image of the deceased as a form of disregarding reality—failing to clearly see a loved one as being dead; the blurry vision one has while tearfully looking at the deceased, the presence of a wedding veil and the significance of the words, “til' death.”  I stared at this painting longer than any of the others because although the more famous works of Monet captured his talent, this painting captured his emotions. 

                Following the art exhibition, I spent the rest of the day perusing the shops along the Champs-Elysees.  I purchased a beautiful winter jacket, a hat, an alarm clock, and an umbrella—all of which are vital when living in the north of France.  Following my shopping spree, I headed back to my hotel where I was planning on refreshing before going out for a final dinner in Paris.  I made it as far as the bar in my hotel—where I stopped for a simple glass of water—and ended up staying for dinner.  While I was sitting at the bar drinking my l’eau gaseuze, the Italian waiter commented, “how sad it is that you only drink water, not wine,” in French that was touched with the slightest Italian pronunciation.  So, as is customary with most Europeans—but especially the Italian and the French—he poured me a glass of wine and gave me a basket of bread.  The waiter and I conversed for a good hour or so and in the course of that time I had finished the entire basket of bread and had successfully polished off half a bottle of wine without realizing my deed.  By the time the wine began to hit me, I figured staggering through the Parisian streets was a bad idea so I chose to stay for dinner.  At dinner my wine glass continued to “magically” refill itself—a trait of waiters that I was warned about—and I thanked my stars for the fact that my “commute” was only stairs away.  During the meal, I couldn’t help but laugh when “Smooth Operator” played over the speakers in the Italian café that was located in Paris, France—how bizarre, how bizarre.   I concluded my meal with a delicious Tiramisu then bid the waiter adieu, thanking him for the wine.  Before stumbling up the stairs following my one-woman wine show, I asked the concierge to reserve a taxi in the morning for what was to be the beginning of my journey north.

A birthday to remember

               At noon on September 22, 2010, as promised, an e-mail swooped into my inbox from a Monsieur Bruno.  The presence of the e-mail not only represented a promise kept, but also destroyed the stereotype that all Americans are hated by the French.  For as Bruno himself had stated on the plane, “I like the U.S. quite a lot.  You are all very nice, friendly, and open.” 

                I waited in anticipation for the message to load and then proceeded to read, re-read, and re-re-read, his silk-like prose and his thoroughly contemplated suggestions.  Bruno’s message was very instructive and it even included links to websites where I could read recommendations and restaurant ratings.  For one restaurant Bruno even included a website where I could make an online reservation.  After much research—that was made very easy by Bruno—I decided to have my birthday dinner at Le Sarladais, a renowned and Michelin Guide rated (oh la la), restaurant serving traditional French cuisine.  In the fashion of a European I made my reservation for 8:00 and then notified Bruno of my selection. 

                In my response e-mail I graciously thanked Bruno for his assistance and suggestions.  I also made him aware of my dinner plans—perhaps subconsciously wishing he would join or ask to accompany me.  This was actually something I contemplated for quite some time, Should I ask Bruno to join me for dinner?  Would that be inappropriate?  Too forward without wanting to be forward?  After thinking about the mixed message my invitation could send, my ignorance of the man’s marital status (although I noticed he was not wearing a wedding band.  And yes, I did check J), and the potential danger I could be placing myself in by inviting a stranger—whom I had only known for seven hours on a plane—to dinner, I decided to merely thank Bruno for the information.

                After unsuccessfully maneuvering Paris streets by foot in search of Le Sarladais—with the “help” (or lack thereof) from googlemaps—I took a cab to the restaurant and arrived exactly at 8:00.  The restaurant was situated on the corner of a small side street and had an entranceway that was shrouded in cabernet velvet.  I meekly approached the host of the restaurant and notified him of my reservation.  He nodded with a smile and said, “We’ve been waiting for you,” in beautiful, but very rapid French.  It was at this moment that I truly absorbed my surroundings and realized that yes they indeed had been waiting for me.  The restaurant, in spite of its renowned reputation, was in close-competition against the other 3,000 high-quality restaurants scattered throughout the city.  It was as a result of this competition that my addition to the restaurant only increased the body count to a whopping number of six—the host, the waiter, and a French family of three.

                I was seated in the fashion of royalty—it literally felt as if they had rolled out a cabernet carpet (to match the entranceway) for my arrival.  The host began speaking to me in rapid French: “le journal, le champagne, une verre, une bouteille.”  I had no idea what this jolly man was saying, so in clear French with an air of confusion, I asked: “Je suis désolé mais, répetez s’il vous plait.”  He kindly nodded, inhaled, and rattled off the exact same expression at light speed—still nothing.  To avoid asking him to repeat the phrase a third time, I quickly tried to decipher his statement and realized that he was offering me a glass of champagne.  Why not?  It is my birthday after all.  Along with the champagne I was given a beautiful plate of salami and crousti that was big enough to feed three people, let alone one.  For the “plat principal” I ordered a steak, “bien cuit” in a béarnaise sauce.  The steak was served with “peasant-style” vegetables that were cooked to perfection.  Along with my steak I was also offered a fine glass of Bordeaux that was absolutely delectable. 

After finishing my meal, which I had eaten at a snail’s pace in order to savor each morsel, I was asked if I wanted dessert.  I agreed and selected a carmelized pear gelée.  I also notified the waiter that it was my birthday to which he smiled and replied, “Je sais (I know).”  How could they know?  Were they just being polite or was it Bruno?  I puzzled over the waiter’s statement of acknowledgement until the pear gelée arrived on the table—with sparkler in tow.  The host set the dessert in front of me, sparklers shooting every which way, and the French family (my only comrades) cheered in honor of my birthday.  I smiled, thanked them all, and was then left in my solitude to finish my dessert.  It was at this moment that I felt more alone than ever before.  My ability to cope with solitude is something I typically pride myself on, I mean, for goodness sakes, this entire summer I lived as a traveling, housesitting gypsy, who with the exception of a dog or a cat, spent morning and evening alone in a myriad of houses.  But this moment was much different.  It was not the eating alone that was a problem—I never mind eating alone (as long as there is more than just one other family around)—but it was the fact that it was my birthday; a day that should be shared with family and friends who you care about and who care about you.  Instead, although the French are lovely and Paris is gorgeous, I was surrounded by a restaurant host, a waiter, and a family who was engulfed in the presence of one another. 

Without warning, fat tears began to run down my cheeks as I tried with much effort to swallow each bite of heavenly pear.  The daughter of the French couple noticed my misery and whispered to her mother who then whispered to the father.  I tried to suck the tears back into their ducts but it was too late, they kept sliding down my face onto my cabernet napkin (the French really know how decorate, don’t they).  After regaining some composure I enjoyed the rest of my dessert and avoided thinking about my loneliness.  I simply paid the bill, thanked them for the wonderful meal and for the birthday candle, and left a tip as a sign of gratitude (NOTE to all future travelers: in France the tip is included in the bill).  The host thanked me and made his way over to a vase of beautiful cabernet roses.  With caress, the host lifted one out of the vase and handed it to me, “A bientôt et bonne anniversaire,” he whispered with a kind smile.  I left the restaurant feeling rejuvenated and I practically floated back to my hotel.  Although a large part of me still felt alone and foreign, there was a small part that felt a sense of belonging and of care.

Paris, day I

        After wrestling my mammoth suitcases into the cab and combatting commuter traffic into Paris, I finally arrived at my hotel, The Hotel Monna Lisa (yes, how cliché could I get?).  The hotel was immaculate, the concierge was very kind and the location was magnificent.  Located on the Rue de Bôetie, right off of the Champs-Elysees, the heart of Paris was only a leisurely stroll away.  Upon arriving I decided to embrace Paris by taking a walk down the Champs-Elysees.  I had only been to Paris once before this current adventure—for a day trip while studying in Belgium—and although I had seen a lot of the city, my former 24-hour experience barely counted.  Despite not having spent a lot of previous time in Paris, as I strolled through the vibrant city I felt comfortable, I felt familiar, I felt home. 

At one point during my walk I was accompanied by a young gentleman named Richard.  While walking through a small park before entering the Jardin des Tuilleries, a young man walked past me moving in the opposite direction.  As he passed, he said, “Très belle,” and I, pretending to put on airs as a French woman, simply walked by without comment, pause, or reflection.  A second later, he approached me and asked if we could walk together for a bit.  My inability to say no, meant yes to him and he introduced himself while we walked.  He was a very nice man and I did enjoy his company for the few minutes that we walked together, but considering my status as a foreigner who was ALONE in Paris, I decided to break off our rendez-vous.  Richard never detected that I was American (or so I suspected) and we conversed in French while we walked down the Champs-Elysees.  After Richard’s several offers of coffee—which I had graciously denied—we bid adieu to one another and I continued my walk to nowhere in particular. 

                While walking in the jardin des tuilleries I came upon a beautiful fountain that was an oasis to lounging locals who were sipping coffee and reading the newspaper.  I found the nearest chair and sank into the surprisingly comfortable metal lounge.  As the sun beat down on Paris, I enjoyed a peaceful nap amidst the hustle of Parisian life. 

                After my encounter with Monsieur Richard and my peaceful, Parisian oasis, my “accepted” existence in France was enhanced by a touring French man.  While standing at a cross walk, a gentleman approached, “Bonjour Madame,” he greeted in beautifully accented French.  “Savez-vous où il y a un macdo près d’ici?”  Having understood perfectly well that he was asking for the location of the nearest McDonald’s, I responded in French and directed him down the Champs-Elysees.  I couldn’t believe that I, a foreigner, would be asked for directions while in Paris.  Perhaps I had given off the air of being French?…I could only hope. 

                Later in the morning, my thoughts about the perception I was projecting were validated.  I decided to pick up a French newspaper so I could be up to date with the latest happenings in my new country.  While at the presse shop I scanned the papers in search of “Le Figaro.”  The store had every newspaper imaginable: The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, newspapers written in Italian, Dutch, Flemish, German, Arabic.  I found every newspaper except “Le Figaro.”  Obviously witnessing my lost expression as I frantically continued to scan the stacks of Hindi, Japanese, and Mandarin newspapers in search of one written in French, the newspaper man (for lack of a more sophisticated title) asked if I needed any assistance.  I responded in French that I was looking for “Le Figaro” and had not been able to find it.  The newspaper man (l’homme des journaux?) looked at me quizzically before pointing to the front of the store (duh!  I should have figured or at least noticed).  After shamefully walking to the front of the store, red-faced with embarrassment, the newspaper man asked in French where I was from.  I told him I was from America and he was very impressed with my knowledge of French.  He told me that I “looked French” and that he presumed I was very smart because although American, I could speak French.  I thanked him for the compliment (perhaps backhanded insult at Americans), and walked back to my hotel with a new feeling of existence and the comfort of acceptance.

Le Vol

          If reality about my future life in France had not yet set in, it sure as heck did now.  Sitting in seat 43F, on a one-way ticket, made living in France as an “assistante de langue vivante” a reality. 

         As people continued to file down the aisle, I wished, hoped, and prayed that the seat next to me would remain vacant, for despite my prior intentions of “packing light and buying local,” I was currently surrounded by three huge carry-ons.  The absence of a body would mean that I could comfortably enjoy the flight with all of my material goods (most of which I will probably never use) stored under the two seats that I claimed for myself.   So, as I was praying for vacancy, an attractive, nay, very attractive gentleman approached my row.  In spite of his charm—he was French so naturally he oozed charm—I still hoped that he would not be sitting directly next to me.   The distinguished gentleman checked his ticket, glanced at the seat number, and took his place in seat 43 D!  Whoo!  Issue avoided—my bags could have a free ride!  Of course I did not immediately put my bags beneath the vacant seat, I instead waited for the plane to begin its taxi to the runway and then I made my introduction.  Well, actually, we both made our introduction.  As the plane began its long crawl to the runway, we simultaneously realized that we would have a vacant seat between us and could benefit from its use.  The suave—at this point unnamed—French man leaned in and said in beautifully accented English, “I guess no one will be joining us.”  I was immediately enamored.  I leaned in and said, “My name is Rachel.”  He responded in tow and told me his name was Bruno—hmm…Bruno, so elegant, so distinguished, so…French.  We began talking and became very good travel companions.  Bruno shared stories about his life and I about mine.  He gave me suggestions about where to travel in France and I informed him that New Jersey is actually a separate state from New York—yes, perhaps I had less exciting information to share.

 Bruno was a gentleman in every sense of the word.  He offered me some of his Chardonnay that he desired to purchase in spite of the steep price--$6 for a bottle containing about half a glass of wine.  At dinner, Bruno wished me bon appetite and we both toasted to one another’s health.  An interesting note was that at dinner I was conscientious of my eating habits and tried to “eat like a European.”  For me, “eating like a European”—which consists of a mélange of rules that originate from years of French class and courses on “French business etiquette and the shall do’s and shall not’s of dinner party dining”—is keeping your fork in your left hand when cutting with the right (to avoid inefficiently changing hands), to use bread as—for lack of a more beautiful term—a mop, and to save the salad for last.  So in spite of my traditional way of eating I made sure I saved my salad until last and avoided the “dance of the utensils” by uncomfortably eating with the fork in my left hand (which on a side note, caused me to discreetly drop a piece of lettuce beneath the “shared” middle seat).  So there I was, eating as what I perceived to be as “European” and Monsieur Bruno, well, he ate as an “American”: Salad first, bread untouched, and fork in right hand.  Were my perceptions about “eating as a European” false, or could Bruno be trying to “eat as an American” in the same vein as I was trying impress him with my “worldly” dining etiquette?     

 Continuing with his gentlemanly manners, Bruno also offered me the vacant seat, saying I could lounge across both of them for more comfort.  I kindly blushed and thanked him before offering him the same.  Bruno smiled and said, “You are much smaller than myself and can easily fit if you’d like.”

HE IS AWESOME!

In spite of Bruno’s kind offer, I preferred not to sprawl out across two seats—playing to the stereotype of the “grand” American, you know the one who buys Hummers and owns a home with five extra bedrooms because they need “a lot of space.”  Needless to say, I appreciated the offer and was very fortunate to have Bruno as my travel companion. 

                The next morning over our airplane breakfast (which despite my taste in good food, I absolutely adore airplane fare—must be my fascination with mini-portion, aviation cooking), I disclosed the fact that it was my birthday.  Bruno, being the gentleman he was, wished me a happy birthday and gave me suggestions about where to dine in Paris.  After our conversation he asked for my e-mail address so he could “further look into a great place to dine.”

                When we arrived at the gate after landing, I said good bye to Bruno and thanked him for his advice, help, and for his company.  Bruno did the same and we parted ways.  Since his is a citizen of Europe, his wait in customs was very brief and we lost sight of one another.  After making it through customs myself—which was significantly shorter than I expected—I located a luggage cart (vital for the mammoth suitcases I needed to maneuver) and waited for my luggage to appear on the carousel.  While scanning the carousel for luggage I was also scanning the crowd for Bruno.  My eyes finally fell on the tall, well-dressed, French man who was standing a few feet away holding two luggage carts.  In my heart I knew that the second cart was for me, but not wanting to jump to any conclusions or make any assumptions I remained with my cart and did not approach Bruno.  How horrible would that have been to go up to the kind man and say, “Hey, I saw you standing over there with two carts and of course the second one must be for me.”   So I stood there, alone, periodically checking to see if Bruno found me (yes, he was scanning the crowd as well).  If he had, I would have abandoned my cart and made my way towards him, unassumingly of course.  Then, his luggage arrived and off he went, leaving the second cart behind.  Au revoir, Bruno! 

Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to Bruno who smilingly said, “I just wanted to wish you a very happy birthday and a good time in France.  I will send you an e-mail about dinner after noon today and if you ever need anything don’t hesitate to contact me.”  I expressed my gratitude and told him how fortunate I was to have had the opportunity of meeting him.  In French fashion we said au revoir with “la bise” a kiss on each cheek and promised “a bientôt” /to “see each other soon” (by e-mail). With that, Bruno turned on his heel, waved good bye, and walked out of the airport.