I was 20 years old and headed overseas for a six-month study abroad experience. Of course, there were complications—it was my senior year in college, and I was applying to medical schools, flying to Paris by way of New Haven and New York City, where I had interviews. I was still reeling from the unhappy ending of my first long-term relationship some six months prior, but I had found a consolation prize, a short fling with the young Frenchman, Christophe, who had taught my conversational French class the previous spring quarter.
Christophe was now back at his university in Paris, and I thought we had a plan to meet and hang out for the two weeks prior to my starting classes. After all, Christophe had visited my home in Seattle. He’d been hosted by my family, and we’d hiked together in the Cascade Mountains and taken the ferry to Victoria, British Columbia. Now, I was looking forward to a little reciprocal hospitality and a personalised tour of Paris. With these plans, I boarded a cheap charter flight to Brussels—a pre-Internet travel relic when flights were brokered through ads in print newspapers, smoking was permitted on planes, there were no TSA lines, and friends and family still met travellers at the gate.
On arrival in Brussels, there was the usual chaos of collecting bags, immigration, changing traveller’s checks (another travel relic) to Belgian Francs (also gone) to buy train fare to Paris. My forest green backpack, well-worn from childhood backpacking trips, was stuffed with all my worldly goods, enough, I hoped to last me through half a year and a Parisian winter. My passport and money were in a waist belt, already sweaty and creased. I’d heard too many stories about pickpockets in Europe and wasn’t taking any chances. After nearly leaving my purse on some steps in New Haven, I might have been my own worst enemy in that department.
I was bleary-eyed with jet lag, and my mouth had the bad taste it got after an all-nighter. The artificial lights and constant announcements in French, Dutch and English were causing a tightness in my forehead that presaged a headache. Uncertainty about reaching Christophe once I arrived in Paris and worry about where I would be staying the night ahead added to the stress.
In the currency exchange line ahead of me was a young man I vaguely recognised from the plane. He was speaking in French and seemed upset. As he turned away from the currency window empty-handed, I asked him in more-than-passable French if everything was all right.
“I was on your flight from New York,” I added, by way of introduction.
“I have a problem,” he responded. “I need to buy a ticket to Paris, and I ran out of money. I have to get there today.”
I thought for a moment. He looked like a nice kid, like any other college student jetting across the Atlantic—jeans, a button-down shirt, a large backpack. We could have been classmates but for my accented French. My budget was tight, very tight, but I decided to take a chance.
“Look. I’ll buy you a ticket. I’m headed to Paris on the next train too.”
“Really? That would be wonderful. I’m meeting my parents at the Paris train station. They’ll pay you back. I’m Jean-Louis, by the way.”
*****
Our arrival in Paris was a blur of collecting bags and introductions. With minutes to spare, Jean-Louis’ parents kissed him hello, kissed him goodbye and loaded him on a train to his university in Toulouse.
“Come for a ride with us,” the parents said to me. “We’ll give you a tour of the city.”
Off we went, a quick pass by the Seine, up the Champs-Élysées and around the Arc de Triomphe, zipping along in a tiny car on congested roads. The scenery was stunning but the driving conditions. Quel désordre!
“What are your plans?” they asked me. “Nothing fixed,” I explained. “Call my friend, meet up, find cheap lodgings, or maybe stay with him.” My new acquaintances immediately fell into a form of in loco parentis, concerned for me in a way I was not.
“I’ll be fine,” I told them.
“Even so,” they said. “Stay the night with us while you figure things out.”
I thanked them profusely and accepted the offer. After circling the block a few times, Monsieur squeezed his car into an improbably small space, and we entered their apartment building. Soon, I was settled into Jean-Louis’ childhood bedroom. There were a few awkward moments as when I mistook the bidet in the “salle de bain” for the toilet in the “toilette” but it was a relief to sleep off my jet lag before setting out to connect with Christophe.
*****
The meeting with Christophe later that day did not go as anticipated. A hasty kiss on two cheeks and a quick peek at his university on the Left Bank substituted for warmth and romance. He’s busy with school, he explained, and can’t spend much time with me. Maybe we could get together in a couple of weeks. I knew a brush-off when I saw one. Apparently, I was good enough for a foreign adventure but not to meet the parents or school friends. In the following weeks, we spoke once on the phone but never met again. I felt rejected, disappointed, but it was a fling, not love, and I got over it.
In the meantime, Monsieur and Madame adopted me. I spent the next two weeks living with them, recovering from jet lag, culture shock and a mild cold for which Madame made me a tisane (herbal tea) with verveine (verbena) and menthe (mint). The couple were a lovely pair, the age of my own parents, both dentists, with a practice in their home, who took an extreme delight in introducing me to all things French.
Dinner was a simple affair. Madame would disappear in the tiny kitchen and whip together a soup of pureed vegetables, main course and salad (frisée, an adventure in itself to this New World girl raised on iceberg lettuce). The final course was the fromages. Monsieur carried a plate to the table and set it almost reverently in front of me.
Each cheese had its own preparation and must be served in order, with the proper knife, he explained. Otherwise, it won’t taste right. One had a rind you could eat. Another, the rind must come off.
“Voici.” He tore a hunk of baguette and sliced a small portion of a Comté, the first cheese. “Try this.”
I sighed happily. What could be better? Next, a Roquefort. “Now this cheese is best mixed with a little butter. It cuts the strong taste.” A dab of butter and a bite-sized morsel of cheese were spread on the bread. “Do you like it?” My approval mattered, and I was happy to share my delight. Fresh bread and creamy cheese: Like with the novel lettuce, it was a far cry from the grocery store Monterey Jack from my childhood.
The final course, a Camembert. “Sniff. It stinks, no? This cheese is strong, but it’s nothing compared to a cheese they make in my home region of Corsica. That cheese…” he wrinkled his nose, “They use ‘ asticots’ to make it.”
“Asticots?”
“Yes, um, you know, baby flies?”
“Grubs?”
“Oui, krubs.” He grinned, wiggling his fingers gleefully. “You can hear them on the plate, click, click, click as they move. Krubs!”
Fortunately for me, there were no grubs on this cheese plate.
*****
My new friends were the best of hosts. They introduced me to the Marché aux Puces (the now-famous flea market on the outskirts of Paris), where Madame insisted I have my palm read by a fortune teller. I’d only have three children, she told me. Only? I thought. Clearly we came from different worlds. They introduced me to the Comédie Française (the French equivalent of the Globe Theatre) and to their cousin, a Comédienne (an actress at the Comédie). I was totally star-struck. We dined on escargot and fresh shellfish at a brasserie on the Champs-Élysées. When it was finally time to move into my school-assigned boarding house in the suburbs, I was sad to go, but our friendship continued throughout my stay in Paris. Ironically, I never saw their son again. He was away at school the entire length of my stay in France.
*****
Paris can be a cold and forbidding place. The French were unwelcoming, at times hostile. I had my share of encounters with rude waiters, scolding dry cleaners, and store clerks who followed me around as though I were a thief. In my six months in Paris, I made few other friends and largely lived in my little bubble of American students, even while studying full-time at Parisian universities. A Parisian once told me, “Americans are ready to open their doors to acquaintances, but their relationships are shallow. If a French family invites you over for dinner, expect a multi-course meal.” It explained a lot. If a friendship is so effortful, why invite in a near-stranger? But never before or since, at home or abroad, have I experienced the kind of hospitality I received from my Parisian friends. These warm and caring people were my true Parisian love affair, not Christophe.
The week I wrote this essay, I reached out to Jean-Louis and asked him if he remembered our meeting in Brussels. I was surprised when he wrote back. “This was an innocent time, when I believed that the Universe was wrapped around me just to save me in strange situations,” he recalled.
There is a Jewish fable which tells of a ragged beggar who knocks at the door on a dark and blustery night. If you let him in, you will be blessed, for he is Elijah the Prophet. I opened my wallet for a stranger. A small gift that was repaid in more than cash. I’m no Elijah, but that one kind act opened a doorway to Paris and a friendship for which I am eternally grateful.
