Vive le Paris

Paris: Day 2 of my dream vacation.

The previous night had been spent celebrating my eighteenth birthday—the legal drinking age in France. The unusual bonding experience bar-hopping with my mother had been entertaining on my behalf, but her alcohol intolerance kicked in something fierce come morning. We had agreed to breakfast with someone we had met at the bar, so she made the effort to overcome her sickness temporarily. Élan had lived in the area for three years, just down the street from the hotel at which we were staying, and he had promised to show us around. The three of us returned to the hotel room, but my mother, about to spend the next eight hours projectile vomiting, shoved me back out into hallway, and I heard the bathroom door slam.

Once out of sight of the hotel, Élan smirked. “I told your mother she could trust me with you… I lied.”

The next eight hours were absolute hell.

It seemed that ages had passed since we entered Hakim Optical.
“I don’t like this colour of contacts on me,” Élan had decided. “Wait here.” He spent the better part of the next two hours arguing with the manager. “This colour is very uncomfortable on my eyes! The other colour I had was fine,” he insisted. “I want new contacts, for free.”
“Sir, we can replace this colour for you if you would like.”
“No, I want a different colour. This colour is uncomfortable.”
The manager rolled his eyes at me. He was not falling for this scam, and the story was getting old. Personally, I could not believe that, on my second day in Paris, I had already wasted a few hours of sightseeing trying to swindle free contact lenses! To top it off, it turns out Élan did not speak a word of French. Who was this guy?

On the way out of the store, Élan had to take his medication. Every 25 minutes that day, we stopped in the street while he dug through his bag, took out a notebook, and jotted down some notes, as well as the time and which pills he was taking. After locating the pills and his water bottle, he would fussily restore and rearrange the contents of his bag. Hundreds of tourists must have pushed past us as he took his time, and I quickly grew impatient. I couldn’t help wondering what all this medication was for; was I safe with this man?

We stopped at a squatter’s museum so I could learn some local history and check out the art; Élan grabbed my behind on the way up the stairs, and I spun around sharply. He apologized, and then did it again.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Eighteen!” I snapped, disgusted. He was thirty-two years old, I had overheard him telling my mother at the bar, and I became vaguely aware I was in the presence of a pervert.
“Good. I like them young.”
Make that a pedophile.

I wanted to save the real sightseeing for when my mother was feeling up to it, I told Élan. I wondered if he could show me where people hung out during the day. He saw through my request, and asked if being alone with him made me uncomfortable. I was firm when I told him yes, and he grabbed my arm to stop me in the middle of the sidewalk.
“I thought you liked me. Last night at the bar you seemed to like me.”
“Élan… I was drunk and having a good time with my mom.”
“So you don’t like me now? I am so insecure, don’t do this to me. I want to spend the week with you and your mother! Don’t you want to be with me?” He was hurt, and I was disturbed.
“This is my special trip… with my MOM. You have been nice but I want to be with her, not with someone we just met in Paris.” He grabbed me again, and told me I was beautiful.
“I have seen prettier, of course,” he continued. “I sleep with models quite often… but there is something special about you.” I started to walk again, and refused to look at him.

Élan wanted to stop by his apartment to get his camera. He invited me upstairs.
“My bed is very comfortable. I am an expert in…”
“I’ll wait outside.”

We found a comfortable salad bar in which to eat dinner. Élan had attempted to take me out somewhere ‘nicer’ but I insisted on staying casual. Instead of having a seat across from me, he sat next to me, and watched me eat. Self-conscious, I began to ramble, mostly to distract myself. I complained of a sore back; he immediately rose and began to massage my neck. He was pushing hard, but the knots in my back were deep and my pain threshold high.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked.
“No, it’s fine. I’m used to it. But you really don’t have to…”
“Wow, you can take a lot of pain. If we had sex I could be so rough with you.”
I stood up and excused myself to the washroom. I paid the bill on my way back to the table.

He walked me to a taxi stand, and when a car finally pulled up, he asked if he could call me tomorrow. I hesitated and he pulled a notepad out of his bag. I told him I didn’t know the number of the hotel; a blatant lie. The hotel card was safe in my pocket. Instead, he scribbled his number, and thrust it into my hand. It looked foreign to me—many more digits than in Canada. I wouldn’t even know how to dial this. Not that I was planning on it.

It was not until a full five minutes later – the entire time spent halfway inside the safe zone that was the taxi, teasingly close to freedom – that I escaped Élan’s rant about how he could see himself with me in the future, and would I please call him? Please? Shutting the door was the only thing I could think about, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief as the driver pulled away from the curb. I handed him the hotel card and asked if he could drop me off at that address. He scrutinized the card, and three blocks later, dropped me off on the sidewalk claiming he was not familiar with the location.

I stood alone on a Parisian sidewalk and cried.

Half an hour later, I was dropped off on the correct street by an older taxi driver toward whom I was extremely thankful. I tipped him well, and then smiled gratefully at the door man as he buzzed me in. I ran up the stairs to my room; I knocked; my mother opened the door; I threw my arms around her and began to sob.
“I missed you,” I whispered.

Élan called that night. I unplugged the phone, and told the concierge we would be taking no more calls for the evening.

People-Watching Is Free

I’m no stranger to awkward moments, but as a Psychology BA graduate, I relish these moments for their observational capacity.

Imagine, while shopping, four strangers intersecting: two teenage males, one elderly lady, one middle-aged woman. All crossing paths with no intention of ever making eye contact, until all notice a $20 bill on the ground in the same instant. A few yards back, I stop to watch the result. Aaaawkward.

What would you do?

Autumn leaf

I had a beautiful moment with a stranger today.

As we were approaching each other on a sidewalk, we made eye contact, broken in an instant as we self-consciously lowered our gazes…just in time to see an autumn leaf fall, softly, precisely, into his waiting hands. Our eyes flickered back upwards, meeting again as my face broke into a huge grin.

I waited until I was at the end of the block to look back, and caught him in the same act.