Lily B. On The Brink Of Paris Part 12

At being singled out as acting commes les francais, Janet sat up straight in her chair and practically erupted into flaming lava streams of pride. She shot a quick look at Hot French Guy, who flashed his superstar smile.

"Oui, oui, vraiment, 'ow she speak ze French wiz my brudder so well, yes? 'Ow she 'as arranged ze scarf around 'er neck juss so."

Janet adjusted her new scarf modestly.

"And 'ow she eat commes les francais, too, non? Ze Bud and ze Chaz 'ave 'amburgers, I can't beliv it! In Paree, to eat ze burgers!"

Bud and Chaz grinned and looked thoroughly un-ashamed.

"But Jah-nay, she 'ave ze palate sophistique! Most Americans will not touch ze cervelles. Jah-nay, she understand not to pa.s.s up a famous delicacy only because it ees cow brain!"

As Madame Chavotte paused to recollect her thoughts, I watched the color drain from Janet's face with alarming swiftness.

"Ou est la toilette?" she whispered at a nearby waiter, who did not or chose not to hear her.

"Ou est la toilette?" she said to Hot French Guy, who shrugged magnificently.

Another waiter carrying a pitcher of water attempted to pa.s.s behind Janet's chair. She leaped to her feet and grabbed him, one fist on each side of his collar.

"Ou est la toilette!" she snarled.

The waiter, alarmed, pointed in the direction of the bathroom. Janet grabbed the pitcher of water from his hands, took a long guzzle, and sprinted to the bathroom as if she were attempting to qualify for the Olympic track and field team. Madame Chavotte watched Janet without comment, but looking at her very closely, I saw what appeared to be a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Was the platoon sergeantlike Madame Chavotte, the glowering mon.o.browed bastion of Nonhumor, having a little fun at Janet's expense? I felt a sudden blossoming of affection for my French teacher. She saw me looking at her, and she might possibly have given me a little wink. Or maybe it was just a nervous tic.

After the bathroom door had slammed, and the subdued giggles issuing from Some of Us Who Shall Remain Nameless had faded, Madame Chavotte continued speaking as if nothing had happened.

"Okay, zen, we are livving for ze airport early in ze morning, so mek sure to get plenty of sleep. Since we 'ave so much time on ze plane, I am asking each one of you to write a t'ree-'undred-word essay on 'ow ze veezeet to Paris 'as changed you. I will collect zem when we have landed in ze U.S."

There was a chorus of groans and protests, its epicenter being with Bud and Chaz. I, on the other hand, found myself kind of looking forward to the exercise. Because through all my phases and dramatic episodes, I am and always will be Lily Blennerha.s.sett, Writer Extraordinaire.

FROM THE PARISIAN DIARY OF.

Lily M. Blennerha.s.sett

And so, even as the lights of Paris blaze and twinkle outside, we have come to the final evening of our journey. We spent our last day, in what I consider a poetically fitting manner, strolling amongst the memorials to some of Paris's most esteemed citizens and expatriates. While paying homage to these honorable achievers of days gone by, we took the time to contemplate our own mortality as well as we wandered down the avenues of eternity.

Also, at dinner Janet ate cow brains and hurled.

Twelve.

All the way to the airport, I tried to absorb my last glimpses of Paris and imprint them into my brain. The boutiques and outdoor cafes, the pet.i.t bakeries emitting scents of croissants and coffee, the mysterious gated archways leading to courtyards. It was all there, right before my eyes. But in less than twenty-four hours I would be back on American roads, pa.s.sing city-size Home Depots and highway billboards enticing travelers to visit the local Chuck E. Cheese.

Madame Chavotte, not unlike my father, was ruthlessly efficient when it came to travel, and she made sure we arrived at the airport several hours before our plane was scheduled to board. Though buzzing with an international cast, Charles de Gaulle Airport still had a distinctly French flavor. It inspired me to buy a Paris-Match magazine, an oversized colorful French publication that is a kind of hybrid of People magazine and Newsweek, with a teeny bit of Star magazine for good measure.

But none of us were allowed to linger and shop for long. Madame Chavotte herded us like a flock of untrustworthy sheep toward our gate. There was a brief drama when Janet discovered she had left her boarding pa.s.s and pa.s.sport balanced on top of the toilet paper dispenser in the ladies' room approximately six miles back down the corridor. We all had to jog in tandem back to the spot. I like to think we looked like the cast of CSI filming a promo: important, mysterious, and undoubtedly in One Serious Hurry. In spite of the unscheduled expedition, we managed to find ourselves seated at the gate with a tight window of just 109 minutes to spare.

Bonnie immediately folded herself into the lotus position and disappeared into her Interior Universe, where pa.s.sports and boarding calls were not required. Janet was a far cry from the effervescent French Women Don't Get Fatwielding enthusiast she'd been on the trip over. She had not completely recovered from her foray into the world of French delicacies the night before and definitely looked a little green around the gills as she sucked weakly on a c.o.ke (full strength). Tim was slouched down in his seat and had fired up his iPod. He had the volume turned up so high, I could identify the band (The Wallflowers) and the tune ("Everybody Out of the Water") from a distance of eleven feet. Bud and Chaz had spotted two tourists wearing Yankees shirts, and the four of them were shouting cheerfully about batting averages. Charlotte was already working on her essay. She sat next to Lewis, who was peering intently at his Sidekick. Even when they weren't talking, they looked like they were.

"What's the haps, Lew?" I asked, pointing to the Sidekick, where I could tell without looking that he was perusing news headlines.

"Yesterday they released four giant catfish into a Cambodian river in an attempt to repopulate the species," he replied.

"No, they did not!" I said enthusiastically. "Can you check the entertainment headlines?"

Lewis. .h.i.t a few b.u.t.tons.

"'Houston Ramada accidentally walks out of Bloomingdale's with $1,800 of lip care products in her bag,'" he read.

"Well, that was bound to happen sooner or later," I said. "Anything else?"

"Your homegirl Lindy Sloane got in trouble for disappearing from her movie set."

"It was a family thing," I stated.

Lewis glanced up at me.

"What do you mean, it was a family thing? That's not what it says here."

Oops.

"I mean...that'd be my best guess. That it was some family thing. Keep reading," I said.

"'Sloane was mobbed by reporters and paparazzi in Charles de Gaulle Airport on Tuesday'-hey, that's here, she was right here yesterday!" he interjected. "'Her publicist denied that her disappearance was unauthorized and explained that her client had been advised by both the film's director and her personal team of physicians to take a few days of rest and relaxation after suffering from an exhaustive bout of a stomach virus.'"

"Actually, I'm here on the advice of my personal physicians too," I quipped. Lewis kept reading.

"'Sloane herself then interrupted to confirm her publicist's story. She added, "I took some time to recuperate by taking long walks along the Champs-Elysees, and thank G.o.d I did! While I was there, I found a little American girl who had gotten separated from her group and was lost! The little girl was terrified, but of course she was quite excited to recognize me, and being a fan, she trusted me right away. With the help of some of my staff, I was able to get her back to her people. I'm so grateful I was in the right place at the right time. A little girl wandering alone in the streets of Paris might have ended tragically if it hadn't been for my intervention."' That's the end of the article."

A little American girl? She was talking about ME! I could accept being called a Little Chicken by a Kindly Elderly Parisian Gentleman. But Lindy Sloane, who arguably had not eaten a sandwich in fifteen months and had a head and body combo that looked like a giant meatball perched atop a single strand of spaghetti, calling ME a little girl?

I was OUTRAGED. I opened my mouth to tell Lewis the entire Star magazinelevel outrageous story. But over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of Tim drumming his carry-on bag and moving his lips to the Wallflowers. He glanced up at me, flashed me a thumbs-up sign, and resumed his drumming.

I closed my mouth. I had the gossip anecdote of a lifetime, and I was keeping it to myself.

Sometimes it is so difficult being me, Lily M. Blennerha.s.sett. But I wouldn't swap it for love or money.

Lewis continued to browse the headlines. "'A woman found a severed finger in her bowl of chili at Wendy's,'" he read.

Three seats away, Janet overheard and uttered a little shriek. Moments later she was on her feet and frantically querying other pa.s.sengers for the location of the nearest toilette.

But these amusing interludes could not suitably alleviate the boredom I was experiencing. You see, when you are GOING somewhere and you arrive in the airport, you are THERE. But when you are LEAVING someplace and you are waiting in the airport, you are neither HERE nor THERE. Charles de Gaulle Airport wasn't Paris; it wasn't really even France (except technically, and geographically, and legally). It was a hub of arriving and departing humanity where boredom reigned. Time had slowed to a Ridiculous Extent. I was so bored that I even skimmed the entire volume of French Women Don't Get Fat. When I finished, I began to look at my watch every two minutes, making note of my surroundings (though at this point my Mental Pool was overflowing and required No Further Details of Any Kind).

Minute Two: Svelte woman in highly tailored suit and scary heels wearing expensive accessories strides past our gate, trailing a good sixteen inches of toilet paper behind one shoe.

Minute Four: Blond Demon Child by window demands attention from Weary Mother. Receiving none, she hurls herself to the floor, shrieks, and points to her mother while shouting, "Mommy pushed me!"

Minute Six: Businessman standing by pay phones drops his plastic container of strawberry Yoplait, which shatters and splatters pink goo everywhere. Businessman departs hastily. Janet runs back to the toilette.

Minute Eight: Young, badly dressed Houston Ramada wannabe pauses near gate, loudly talking on her cell phone. All airport noise, including landing and takeoff sounds, are briefly drowned out by the following: "So I'm all like...what? And he's all like...no, you did not! And I'm all like...so what if I did? And he's all like...later. And I'm all like...whatever, loser!" Young, badly dressed Houston Ramada wannabe's cell phone battery suddenly dies, and her conversation is cut short. Several pa.s.sengers seated nearby are all like...YAY!

Minute Ten: Madame Chavotte falls asleep, her mouth wide open in a menacing, scarlet O.

Minute Twelve: They are coming to take me away. Actually, they are coming to take us all away. Two very neat men in pilot's uniforms are strolling toward our gate. They look jovial but focused. Energetic but centered. French but not French. They are pulling two identical black suitcases behind them. They are wearing identical sungla.s.ses and sport identical clipped beards. Golden wing pins gleam from their chests. The Pilot Twins stop briefly to exchange words with the flight attendant on duty, who gazes at them with liquid, adoring eyes. Then the door with the sign that says DO NOT ENTER in six or eight languages opens, and the Pilot Twins go through. One of them glances over his shoulder, seemingly at me (it's hard to be precise with the sungla.s.ses). Like he's telling me to get it together, because this is it.

Then they both disappeared through the Do Not Enter door. Not a few seconds later we heard the official boarding call, first in French, then in English.

"It's time," said Charlotte in her Scout leader kind of way. "Everybody stow your stuff in your carry-ons, and make sure you have your pa.s.sports out, because they're going to want to see them when we board."

Apparently I did not move fast enough.

"Come on, people!" cried Charlotte. "Continents drift faster than this!"

Madame Chavotte was standing behind Charlotte, waving her arms the way those guys in the jumpsuits and headphones who stand out on the runway do when they want to tell the plane where to go.

"Mek a line 'ere be'ind me," she was calling. And though n.o.body seemed to move, we were suddenly more or less in a line behind her. She was just That Big, I figured.

When the line started to move, I felt an unexpected surge of panic. I gripped at Charlotte's shirt in front of me.

"Charlotte," I whispered, "I don't want to go!"

Charlotte nodded.

"No, I mean I really, really don't want to go! I'm not ready. I CAN'T LEAVE!"

I was getting to a place that might be called pre-pre-hysterical. Then I felt a cool hand on my shoulder.

"Lily," came Bonnie's soothing voice, "Paris is part of your Inner Universe now. You can visit anytime you want."

I can't say I fully bought Bonnie's claim. If that were true, and you only had to visit a place once and then could go back to your Inner Universe, I don't think the airline industry would be doing so well. Cruise ships, luxury resorts, they'd all go belly-up.

But I did get on the plane.

FROM THE PARISIAN DIARY OF.

Lily M. Blennerha.s.sett.

Our journey has come to an end. As the plane bears us up into golden sunlight toward our fine home country, we are privileged with one final view of Paris, which now resembles nothing so much as a stately, elegant woman bejeweled and immaculately coiffed. Her gifts to us have been of art and architecture, of cuisine and culture, of sight and sound. She has changed us permanently; she has imprinted herself upon our souls. Perhaps this is what Hemingway meant when he said Paris was a movable feast, for a vestige of its riches and treats do indeed follow us home.

As for our little group, Janet is already hogging the closest bathroom, Charlotte and Lewis look suspiciously like two people about to become an item, Tim is getting quite used to speaking out loud in Actual Conversation, and Bonnie has picked up a regal medieval glow that I don't believe she had before visiting the Hotel de Sens. I'm sure even Bud and Chaz have changed, though I think it may only have been from tossing an American sort of ball to tossing a European sort of ball.

On a personal note, I have to say I did not get what I originally thought I wanted out of Paris. My plan was to collect gems and nuggets to convert into the first chapter of my Great Parisian Novel. I was going to wander the realms Far Removed from the Regular People and the Simple Tourists. But the truth is, I was not transported into an elegant world of pate de foie gras and champagne. The truth is, I don't have to write the Great Parisian Novel to be interesting. Sometimes the ordinary contains all the extraordinary a writer could ever need. My experience was what I swore it wouldn't be: that of a Simple Tourist. And you know what? This Simple Tourist had a blast.

Auarevoir, Paris.

I have a feeling I'll be back.

LILY M. BLENNERHa.s.sETT'S CONCISE FRENCH GLOSSARY.

eh bien: well, then.

quatre, cinq, six: four, five, six Bonjour! Comment ca va?: h.e.l.lo! How are you?

vraiment fantastique: really fantastic.

C'est formidable!: It's tremendous!

le chocolat: chocolate commes les Francaises: As Frenchwomen do la turbulence: turbulence.

alors, mes enfants: now, my children oui: yes Allons-y: Let's go chaussures: shoes.

la grand-route: the highway Ville Ecole Internationale: International School City les bandits: robbers les Francais: the French Ecoutez, mes enfants: Listen, my children immediatement: immediately Pour les filles, deuxieme etage: For the girls, second floor Pour les garcons, troisieme etage: For the boys, third floor premier etage: first floor rez-de-chaussee: street level Voila!: There it is!

allez: go Bon appet.i.t!: Hearty appet.i.te!

steak au poivre: steak with peppercorns escargots: snails pommes de terre: potatoes terrine: pate Voici!: Here it is!

raison d'etre: reason for being J'aime Nutella!: I love Nutella!

seul: alone ecrivain: writer absolument: absolutely D'accord?: Do you agree?

le bus: the bus Comprenez?: You understand?

trop vite: too fast la vie: life rester: to rest je veux: I want s'il vous plait: please terrible: terrible l'hotel: hotel, manor, or other fancy building une Parisienne: a Parisian woman formidable!: tremendous, fabulous!

Bonjour! Je m'appelle Jah-nay!: h.e.l.lo! My name is Jah-nay!