We*'ll Always Have Paris EXCERPT
(* = We foreigners)
On the plane from Cincinnati to Paris, I am seated next to an older man. Judging by his clothes, he’s American, but I do no more than the usual smile-and-nod, just in case. I am not yet ready to excavate my high-school French, learned in approximately the Époque Médiévale. The flight proceeds in all its dull predictability (for which I suppose we should be grateful): in the aisle, the carts come and go, ever grazing your little toe (forgive me, T.S. Eliot); people squeeze by other people, unwittingly knocking them in the teeth with their elbows; and the book you need is ten rows back in the overhead compartment. Finally, at mealtime, I have occasion to determine the cultural orientation of the man next to me: “Chicken or pasta?” chants the flight attendant, “chicken or pasta?” At our row, the employee receives a blank look from my mystery man, and quickly changes the question: “Du poulet ou des pâtes?” “Du poulet,” answers my seatmate.
Later, and thanks to the need for politeness, I become braver; I have my requested aisle seat and so when I get up to go to the restroom, I ask him—in his own language—if he would like to get out, trapped as he is next to the window. “Non, non, merci,” he says, “Je ne bouge pas.” It turns out to be true: he won’t budge—for the next seven and a half hours. This is quite formidable, in my opinion; I myself will have to get up at least three times during this time (hence my choice of aisle seating). Each time I do get up, I ask him again if he’d like to get out; each time he says no. Either he’s wearing a diaper—something I should perhaps consider—or the French bladder is far more fort than my wimpy American one.
So if this is a real Frenchman, why is he dressed in khaki cargo shorts, elasticized tube socks, and white Reeboks? He’s retired, he tells me once we begin to make small talk (my French like Swiss cheese: delicious in my mouth but riddled with unexpected small holes); he lives in Florida part of the year now. Last year he took a five-month trip and traveled around much of the U.S. Canyonlands, he tells me—ah, Canyonlands! He kisses his fingertips. I agree. I ask him about a delectable rumor I’ve heard—that there is a restaurant in Paris, like The Bald Man’s in New York—that serves only chocolate. He wrinkles his brow, pondering. Finally he tells me that while it sounds delightful, he doesn’t know if it exists. Then he asks me where else in France I’ll be traveling. Toulouse, I say, and Albi. “Then you must,” he commands passionately, “eat the cassoulet!” “Mais je suis végétarienne,” I inform him. “Ah, non! Oh, là!” he mourns for me. Mourns loudly enough for everyone nearby to look at us curiously. I guess I’ll really be missing out on something—something including pig skin (in France, they eat it instead of turning it into footballs), goose fat, and a few unfortunate little quack-quacks. Local variations may involve a partridge (sans pear tree) and, according to Wikipedia, a “cold roast shoulder,” which in my experience is something akin to what happens when my husband and I are quarreling.