One

Nuit Blanche is what the French call it when sleep does not come and you are trying to catch some shuteye. I am experiencing that tonight despite all of my mental efforts. 

                I had gone to bed around eleven p.m. and it is now past midnight. I have been tossing and turning. Slumber is taking the night off. I am fully awake!

                Earlier in the evening, I realized that it was October 27, 1970, exactly three months since I have been here in Paris. It is also a year since I was discharged from the U.S. Army after my tour in Vietnam.

                The weather, presently, is entering its winter cycle. However, from what I hear, the weather has been unusual for this time of the year, mild, sunny and clear, kind of like a late Indian summer with sporadic rain.

                For the last hour or so, I have watched images of shadows as they danced across the ceiling of my room, reflecting the infrequent traffic as it drove down below, past the building.

                My window is slightly open so I can hear the cars drive by. My room is on the top floor of a building near L’Observatoire. 

                I had also listened to the raindrops as they fell on the roof above my head. There is something exceptional about being in bed and listening to the rain fall on the roof above your head.

                I had found the room through Kathy, a Canadian girl I had met while registering at the Sorbonne for the school year. She is preparing to work on her master’s degree in Medieval French literature. I will be studying modern French literature and ancient French history.

                Her husband, who is French, is studying dentistry, but not

at the Sorbonne. They intend to move to Canada after they finish their studies here. Both knew the woman who owned this place.

                Kathy had also told me about The American Center for Students and Artists, a kind of all-purpose institution created to help American and other foreign students while they study in Paris.

                The Center offered free showers. It had a large yard in the back. It was a nice place to visit and try to meet people if you were a new arrival in Paris.

                It is located on Boulevard Raspail, in Montparnasse, and had been around for years.

                Americans had created the Center some time back, and it continues to be financially supported by contributions from wealthy Americans in the U.S. and in France.

                One rumor had it that one of the contributors is James Jones, the writer of From Here to Eternity fame, who was living in Paris.

                Kathy had also told me about another American writer— Irwin Shaw—who lives in Paris. She had a friend who knew him through some other friends back in New York and he, apparently, was helping the American center as well.

                On my first few days in Paris, in early August, I stayed at a small hotel on quai de Montebello, across from Notre Dame Cathedral.

                I could see most of the building from my window. The hotel room was tiny, and I wanted something with more space and something more permanent.

                I hated to lose the view of that noble and classic ancient structure when I moved to my present lodgings here.

                It was always a great pleasure to walk by and stand in front of Notre Dame, and reflect on its spiritual and historical significance.

                Plenty of history exists in the city of Paris. Everywhere you look such history echoes back to you. It challenges you to stop and reconfigure your own ideas about who you are and why you are here.

                I am not a religious person, but seeing this great religious monument so close did bring me a sense of comfort and permanence.

                The construction of the building started in the middle of the 11^th century and it took over two hundred years—spread over the next few centuries—for the building to be completed.

                The other thing that was happening to Notre Dame now, was that they were actually cleaning the building. It was black with 

soot from years and years of neglect and pollution.

                They had developed a process to clean her up. It was in the form of a pencil-like instrument, they were literally writing off the dirt!

                It would take years, but it would restore the building to its magnificent splendor to be enjoyed by future generations.

                The hotel that I stayed in was also not far from Shakespeare & Company, a famous bookstore that has been in Paris since the 20s.

                Famous writers populate its historical pedigree: Hemingway, Ezra Pound, among others.              

                The most famous writer associated with Shakespeare & Company is James Joyce, the Irish writer, and author of Ulysses.

                Silvia Beach, an American, the owner of the bookstore back then, had published Ulysses at an incredible cost to her both financially and socially. 

                I had read about the trials and tribulations that Ulysses had gone through. At one time, it was banned in the U.S. and a lawsuit had been started to keep the book from being published due to what some people called its “obscenity.”

                After a long and arduous process, the U. S. judge presiding over the trial declared that the book was not obscene, and ruled that it could be published.

                Ulysses is now considered one of the masterpieces of English literature!

                I could take pride in the fact that I had read the book. It was not an easy read, but I was proud that I had managed to finish it. A book that is in a category by itself; indeed, a masterpiece of English literature!

                I had visited Shakespeare & Company a few times but stopped going because all I heard around me was English. The bookstore was filled with American tourists and, to be honest, I had not come to Paris to be around American tourists.

                In a conversation I had with Kathy, she had told me about a woman who was looking for someone to rent one of the rooms she owned, and she offered to introduce me to her.

                The woman, Madame Millet, preferred foreign students—especially Americans—as tenants because they paid the rent and took care of the premises.

                “French students can be dirty and have no respect for people’s property.” Madame Millet had told Kathy. 

                I met Madame Millet and we agreed on the tenancy terms. As a way of introduction, she told me that she had lived in Washington, D.C. for a few years while her husband—a diplomat—had been posted at the French embassy. 

                After doing tours in several other countries, they had come back to Paris. She was now a widow, and Paris was where she wanted to end her days.

                “The room has everything you need,” she explained when we met.            “Dishes, eating utensils, a sink, an electric stove with two burners, a sturdy bed. I will provide you with the proper bedding. I will not wash it, that’s your responsibility.”

               She pointed out an old armoire that had a large mirror on one of the doors. She opened the door and I saw napkins, table clothes, sheets, blankets and towels properly arranged.

                She pulled an old hair dryer from the armoire.

                “Tiens, I forgot about this thing.”

                She plugged it into a wall outlet and turned it on. It worked. She unplugged it and put it back inside the armoire.

                “Still works,” she continued, somewhat surprised. “And here is a nice table that you can also use as a desk for your work. Two comfortable chairs. There is also a small bathroom with a shower and bidet, but far away from everything.”

                We walked to the other end of the room to inspect the bathroom and the bidet—a bathroom contraption not well known in the U.S.—used here by women for hygienic purposes. There was a small sink next to it.

                “I am sorry, but the toilet is outside at the end of the hallway. But I have someone who comes twice a week to maintain it.”

                I was certain the toilet was the kind where you squat. For many of my fellow Americans this toilette set up is a bit strange.

                For me it made sense because in terms of sanitation it was cleaner. However, she did not volunteer to show it to me.

                Heinz, her previous German tenant, she continued, “was very particular about such things. He never complained, and you know how fussy German people are.

“I was sorry to see him go. Mais, c’est la vie—but, that is life,” she said, with a heavy sigh. 

                There was no refrigerator in the room but in the winter, according to her, I could put la nourriture—food—outside on the windowsill where the cold would keep it fresh.

                She did not say what would happen when the weather got hot, and I did not ask.

                I immediately liked the room. It was long and clean and I moved in about a week or so after my arrival in Paris. 

                “It used to be two single rooms. But one was small so we made it into one single room,” Madame Millet, had said.

                It had high ceilings and a faux fireplace. When I asked Madame Millet about it, she said it had been installed by the previous owner to give the room “caractère et ambiance”—character and atmosphere.

                There was a radiator in the room and she reassured me that it would keep the room warm during the cold months.

                There were a couple of things that were impressive about the room. Two windows, tall, with curved tops. They looked like they had been designed, or maybe stolen from a medieval church.

                All that was missing was stained glass and the sound of a Gregorian chant. In fact, I started thinking of the place as the Abbey.

                When I asked her about the windows, she said that they were already installed when she purchased the room.

                And the other thing about the room was the exposed ceiling beams.

                “They are true,” Madame Millet said. “They are not false.”

                The first time Madame Millet and I met, it was in the lobby and we walked upstairs. There is no elevator in the building—it had five floors—and the room was on the top floor.

                When we finally got to the top, she was breathing heavily. It was a tiring climb for her, and it had been a warm day.

                “I am too old for this,” she said. “But you are young and strong. Climbing these stairs will be good exercise for your health.”

                I had suggested that I go upstairs by myself, but she insisted in coming up to show me the room.

                Heinz was a music student, she said, “and he was very correct. He paid his rent in advance and took care of the place, as you can see.”

                Orderliness is indeed a Teutonic quality. The French are not orderly. They are bordélique—messy, she indicated.

                “I have another tenant, Bernard, who lives in A,” she continued, “and he has a phone. You can borrow it in case of an emergency, I will tell him. Bernard is a painter and one day he will be famous. He has been a student at the École des Beaux-Art.”

                I knew nothing about this particular school. Later, I learned that it was a very prestigious art school with a long tradition that had alumni of great French painters.

                We stopped by room A. She knocked on the door but there was no answer. She promised she would get in touch with Bernard and tell him about me using his phone.

                There were five individual rooms at the top of the building. A, B, C, D, and F. Rooms B, D and F belonged to different owners, Madame Millet said, but she did not think they were rented, probably used for storage. My room was C.

                When I made a comment about the letter jumping from D to F,

she replied that the owner of F was someone “extravagant.” I did not ask what she meant. Maybe he hated the letter E.

                The building had a concierge, but Madame Millet advised me not to have anything to do with her. The woman in question was, in Madame’s words, “abominable”—foul, and it was better to keep away from her.

                If I ever needed anything, regarding the room, simply call Madame Millet and she would find a solution.

                Based on the information I had about the concierge, and after I moved in, I always avoided her. However, she did not appear to be the monster that Madame Millet had described.

                Whenever I ran into her, she would be very correct, very serious, and greeted me with a formal: Bonjour, Monsieur to which I would respond: Bonjour, Madame.

                Madame Millet did not live in the building. She owned an apartment here and such properties usually included a storage room down in the basement and, in some instances, rooms on the top floors, as well.

                The rooms, such as the one I had rented, are called chambres de bonne—bonne being the word for maid—in French.

                Back in the old days, it was where the domestiques—domestiques was a description used for all servants—were lodged.

                Nowadays, domestiques are not so prevalent so the rooms are rented mostly to students.

                Getting a decent and affordable place in Paris to live is an ordeal. Chambres de bonne were highly sought after because they were one of the cheapest places to rent.

                I had been lucky to get this place thanks to the Canadian girl, Kathy, and her husband, Armand. 

                Even though Madame Millet had said the radiator was working, she provided me with a heavy woolen blanket.

                “Au cas où vous êtes frileux,”—in case you are sensitive to the cold.

                The blanket did help to keep me warm. It was getting up in the cold morning that was a bit of an ordeal.

                The windows gave me an unobstructed view of several large trees down below, across the street. The windows were facing in a southeasterly direction.

                In the morning, I got a good dose of sunlight.

                Very often, I would stand by a window and watch different people bring their dogs to the trees.

                The dogs would do their business and occasionally the owner would bend and pick up after the dog. Not often, though.

 

 

Since it seemed that tonight sleep would not come, I finally decided to get up, get dressed, and go out for a walk.

Maybe the exercise would help clear up my head; however,

I suspected it was going to be a very long and sleepless night. Lately, I have been having a tough time catching some shut-eye.

                Though it had rained earlier in the evening, the rain had now given way to a clear sky.  I stood out on the silent street looking up at the dark sky, and I could see some stars blinking away in the distance.

                I love Paris, especially at night after it has rained. Quiet, dark in lots of places, and mostly deserted. There is also something magical and ephemeral about the rain in Paris, it seems to transform the streets. 

                The cobblestones were still wet from the rain and glistening from the reflections of the streetlights that fell on them.

                I thought that the wet cobblestones guarded immutable secrets of the past. The rain only cleans them; it does not erase the secrets.

                It seems to make them vibrant, alive, almost. I do not know why the images of Paris streets after it rains bring me such strange sentiments.

                Lots of stuff has been going through my brain lately. It was probably the reason why my sleep had not been easy, but it was not something specific, really.

                As usual, when I take these walks in the middle of the night, I end up reflecting on the vagaries of my life. Not all of the time, really, but often enough.

                I am not overwhelmed by such thoughts, but I do not reject them. They live with me, and I live with them!

                Presently, I am going to the Sorbonne taking a few graduate courses, with French history at the center of my studies.

                However, I had also felt a sense of distance, disconnectedness—is there such a word—from what other people do.

                Maybe it was the late reaction of what happens after being in the military and in the middle of brutality, war, death . . . I mean, who knows?

                It had seemed strange to find myself back in school after my Vietnam Army tour. I was the same age as most of my fellow- students, yet, in many ways, I was much older than they were.

                A war ages everyone!

                Upon my return to the states, I felt I needed a new environment and because I wanted to further my studies in French history, Paris was the place to go to continue doing so.

                It was not an easy decision to make, really. I kept going back and forth, should I do it? Should I not do it? Maybe just go there for a semester or two, then come back to the states.

                It would definitely help me with my language skills. And getting away from the state for a bit was not really a bad idea. So, here I am. I think I made the right decision.

 

Change is a rather peculiar phenomenon. It can scare you because in many instances it comes about in a rather abrupt way.

                In other instances, it kind of slides into your existence and you wake up one day and things in your life are not the same anymore. Your emotional and spiritual landscape have changed and, in some instances, dramatically.

                Earlier, as I started my walk, I reflected on the many things that had happened in the last few weeks since my arrival in Paris and even before.

                Among them, the beginning of school year, life’s absurdities, memories, a French girl, a new city, a new language, trying to deal with French bureaucracy, incertitudes, new customs, idiosyncrasies, a new life, the future, my ingrown toenail; no, I do not have an ingrown toenail . . . a bit of humor never hurts. 

                I was not really looking for answers, for the truth is that answers are vague and contradictory. Hopefully, some simple insights would become clear during my walk, and by the time the sun came up.

                I usually walked to Montparnasse, a favorite area of mine, which was not far from where I lived.

                I knew there would be some people—the stragglers of the night—hanging out at the cafés on the corner of Raspail and Montparnasse boulevards.

                La Coupole, Les Cosmos, Le Select, La Rotonde, Le Dôme. All of these cafés were quite popular, and stayed open late into the night.

                What I found fascinating was that these cafés are all within a few

yards of each other, literally. The competition must be fierce.

                I had read that Parisians pick their cafés and they personalize them; they become the places to hang out, a kind of “home café” as it were.

                When I first got to Paris, I used to go out for a walk in the middle of the night. For some reason, I wanted to walk in places that during the day had been crowded.

                I thought that whoever walked during the day had left memories behind, sort of hovering in the air. I thought of them as echoes of air prints.

                Something like when smoke lingers in the air for a while after the smoker exhales.

                I did not know anyone in Paris when I first arrived, so I spent a great deal of my time walking and riding the Métro around the city, exploring it, taking it all in. I was curious to explore different quarters in the city.

I did a lot of walking, which is one of the greatest pleasures to be enjoyed in Paris. And for that one has to wear a comfortable pair of shoes.

                I had also sat at countless sidewalk cafes absorbing the atmosphere, watching tourists deciphering their guide maps and me trying to read Le Monde, one of the finest newspapers in the world, and pretending that I was not a newcomer to the city.

                The other thing I learned was that there is something in the French tradition called La Rentrée, which can be translated as the Return, and it takes place in early September.

                What it means is that yearly vacations are over; people are coming back; the new school year starts; and the French call this La Rentrée.       

                French workers are allowed 4 weeks’ paid vacation a year, which was a surprise to me when I learned about it. Back in the U.S., we are lucky to get one week of paid vacation.

                Parisians leave for their summer vacations in July and August, a rite that is considered a must for Parisians and not just Parisians but for French people in general.

                Paris literally empties itself, and then it is invaded by the multitude of tourists from all over the world. French is the last language you hear out on the streets.

                Then Parisians return, all sun-tanned—bronzé—as they say, the boulangeries re-open, the tourists leave with whatever souvenirs they will

carry back with them, and the city becomes French again.                                                                

During my first week in Paris, I met an American girl—Patricia—at the Gibert Jeune bookstore in Place St. Michel, who invited me to go with her to a night mass in Notre Dame.

                The interior of Notre Dame is just magnificent! I can understand why the French are so proud of the cathedral. Patricia had been looking for a book about Paris and its history and, when we met, I pretended to know Paris like the back of my hand.

                Anyway, one thing led to another and we spent two days together after that. She then left for Amsterdam to continue her European tour.

                She wanted me to go with her, but I declined. I wanted to stay in Paris. She promised that she would keep in touch. Patricia was a nice girl.

                Eventually, the tourist season ended. I began attending the Sorbonne, and winter made its entrance.

 

Very often, the nights seem interminable and mysterious to lots of people but not to me. I find them soothing and allow me to sort of mentally recover what I have misplaced during the day.

                So tonight, I found myself walking toward Montparnasse. I had taken this route before. I was in no hurry. The Métro had stopped running, but I did not mind a walk.

                The silence of the night allowed me to hear my own footsteps as I walked, and to hear my innermost thoughts as they bounced inside my head as loud as the steps I was taking.

                I thought, okay, old buddy, you are in Paris! How good is that?

Because of the earlier rain, there was a lingering smell in the air, fresh, something new.

                I had thought of calling Jasmin, waking her up, and asking her to meet me; she did not live very far from where the cafés in Montparnasse were located.

                I knew she would not hesitate to join me, but I decided against it. Let her catch some shut-eye, I thought.

                She had started working on her Master’s thesis. It kept her busy. It had to do with the writings and philosophical opinions of a German political philosopher: Herbert Marcuse.

                He had a large following in Europe, mostly students, and his views had resonated with the present generation. The stuff from Marcuse was pretty heavy.

                Lately, I had also been reflecting on the notion of time, about how humans had developed ways to deal with this strange singularity, which we do not understand but which we experience.

                How to try to explain it, how to measure this event that is part of our daily lives, but I also wanted to lose the notion of time. The whole idea was rather whimsical on my part.

                A few days ago, in a moment of pure fantasy, as Jasmin and I were walking on Pont Alexandre, III, I took my watch off and threw it into the Seine.

                Jasmin was surprised, but not totally.

                “What are you doing?”

                “I don’t need it.”

                “It is not working?”

                “I don’t want this thing on my wrist anymore.”

                “Why?”

                “I hate it. It’s useless. It means nothing. We have become slaves to time-gadgets. Our whole lives depend on them. It’s stupid. We should not be controlled by these so-called timing devices or by any gadgets.”

                “T’es fou—you are crazy.”

                “No, I am trying to remain sane.”

                “You do that by throwing the watch in the river.”

                “It’s just a cheap Japanese watch. Come on.”

                “It is not that. You do not remain sane by throwing a watch into the Seine, even if it is a cheap watch.”

                She was probably right that insanity has less to do with the watch, and more to do with me throwing the damn thing into the river.

                “You Americans are really crazy. You think that by throwing a watch in the river that ‘time’ will disappear,” she continued.

                “Maybe it will. Okay, I’ve got another watch.”

                She shook her head and gave me a tolerant smile.

                “I hate the whole notion of ‘time’,” I insisted. “What the hell does that mean? Where did this ‘time’ thing come from? Do you understand it?”

                “Nobody understands it. It is just a way for humans to deal with this peculiarity. It helps . . . well, it helps pass the time.” She laughed.

                “Okay, we decided that it helps pass the ‘time’. What about the ‘shape’ of time? What does it look like?”

                “Shape? Oui, la forme tu veux dire?”

                “Oui, la forme. Is it square, or round, or a triangle?”

                “Time has no shape. You give it whatever shape you want.”

                “How about an upside-down quadrangle?”

                “Upside-down quadrangle? There is no such a thing.”

                “I bet you the Babylonians knew about it.”

                “If that is true, why do we not know it?”

                “Smart guys, they kept it a secret as they didn’t want their enemies to steal it from them.”             

                “You are being difficult,” she smiled. “It is all in your head, anyway.”

                We stood on the bridge looking down at the river flow. The barge traffic was heavy going in both directions, underneath our feet.

                I always liked the view of the city from this magnificent bridge. You turn around three hundred and sixty degrees, and you do not imagine Paris anymore; you are in it!

                Now, standing on the bridge with Jasmin was a moment to treasure, and also a moment of introspection. It is very difficult to express into words the effect Paris has on your heart and soul.

                It seems to force you to become reflective, and to search for some kind of meaning and understanding about what your life is all about, and also about who you are. 

                In fact, sometimes, I thought of actually writing a novel about Paris. However, I had not come to Paris to become a writer. It was just one of those crazy and romantic ideas that populate our brains in moments of sheer fantasy.

                “Why is time such a conflict in your head?” Jasmin had asked as we were standing on the bridge.

                “Because it does not make sense. It is nebulous. We determine this thing as stretching from an invisible point A to another invisible point B.

                “We cannot see it, we cannot touch it, and it has no shape, and we call it ‘time.’ We go to sleep, and we eventually wake up. We think that time has passed, but what exactly has passed?”

                “What do you call it when a woman is pregnant and she waits to have the baby? That is time, is it not?”

                “I don’t know.”

                “Find a way to explain the many full moons a pregnant woman has to wait to give birth to her child? If we cannot call it ‘time’, what should we call it?”

                “Baguette.”

                She started to laugh, and hugged me.

                “So, at what ‘baguette’ do you want to meet tomorrow?”

                I took French classes when I was in college, back in the states, so when I arrived here, I was not completely lost.

                I can read French better than I can speak it. Though, I have learned more French in the last few weeks here than in all of the classes I took while in college back in the states. 

                I am now going to the Sorbonne working on my masters in French literature and history, especially dealing with the Norman conquest of England.

                I have no idea why the Norman Conquest of England fascinates me. It must have been a book that I read as a kid. I should add that the goal, in coming to Paris, was really to become proficient in French by forcing myself to speak French at all times.

                I must admit that I have improved my French a lot. In addition, I seem to have an affinity for languages—I have previously studied Italian and Spanish—and as Jasmin keeps telling me, having a French girlfriend does help immensely.

                That was part of the idea, though it has not worked out quite that way. It seems that she has gotten the better part of the bargain between us when it comes to advancing our individual language skills, as we speak English more often than we speak French.

                Jasmin’s take is that she needs to improve her English for her master’s studies—she actually speaks excellent and fluent English.

                Her accent is enchanting. I love to hear her accent when she speaks English. I can never get tired of it.

                She argues that my French will automatically insert itself into my brain almost like by osmosis. After all, do I not hear French around me all of the time?

                However, the problem with her take on the situation is that my speaking French skills are not as good as her English-speaking skills.  

                “It’s a lousy bargain,” I always tell her. 

                “It is not,” she argues back. “I speak French with you,” which was really not the case and the reason for my complaint.

                “In addition,” she argues, “you now have a charming, and attractive French girlfriend, as you say to me all the time. How many American men living in Paris can claim that?”

                “I see your point.”

                “There you are. You should be happy about our bargain,” Jasmin said.

                I would be a fool to disagree with the idea of having an attractive French girlfriend! 

                Maybe, I will drop by her place later after my walk tonight. On second thought, why not stay up until the sun comes up. I had done that before.

                Spend the next few hours walking, thinking, hearing my thoughts, trying to get a fix on things. Reflecting on what I had been through these past three months, and before that.

                Perhaps, find an all-night café open, get some delicious café crème and wait until the boulangerie opens.

                Then buy some freshly baked baguette, croissants and brioches, Jasmin’s favorite breakfast food, find a flower store, get her a bunch of red roses, then go wake her up, and surprise her.

                I thought that would please her.

                I could picture her already with a beautiful smile, and her bright shiny eyes, as she would welcome me while pretending to be upset because I did not ask her to join me.

                “Merci pour les fleurs. C’est gentile—thank you for the flowers. How nice!”

                “My pleasure.”

                 “But you explored Paris at night without me, and that is not fair.”

                “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

                “You did not get any sleep?”

                “How could I when most of the time all I think about is you.”

                “C’est vrai—it is true?”

                “Oui!”

                “Ce gentille ça—how nice.”

                “Truly?”

                “Truly!”

                Jasmin! The name of a flower.

 

As I started my walk, tonight, fresh thoughts of how and when I met Jasmin at the Sorbonne came to me. I have a vivid memory of how that happened. 

                It was literally at the start of the school year. It was in the middle of the week, late afternoon. I had been doing research in the library on a paper for a class assignment, and I wanted to get back to my place to try to finish it.

                My memory of my first encounter with Jasmin is clear. It was less than ideal. In fact, it was not friendly at all! Clash of cultures, of personalities. It seemed to start and end all at once.

                It now sounds silly, but that is how I felt. Two strangers walking past the other, allowing just enough time to get a glimpse of the other. Not expecting or hoping for anything.

                A moment of human ignorance or insignificance, more like a blink of an eye. It happens every day to all of us. Such blinks mean nothing.

                In typical French fashion, upon meeting me, Jasmin made it clear that Americans were the least of her favorite people!

                She was standing at a corner of Boulevard St. Michel, and Place de la Sorbonne passing out flyers of a communist publication.

                She offered me one as I walked by and I did not take it. I sort of made a motion with my hand to dismiss the flyer she was offering.

                People are always trying to get you to take a flyer around the Sorbonne. I was not paying much attention, really.

                She took umbrage to that and came after me.

                “Excuse-moi, mais pourquoi tu refuses de prendre cette feuille?”

                She stood in front of me with an arrogance that can piss you off in no time. An in-your-face-like-attitude demanding, really, why I had refused to take the flyer.

                Her self-importance, plus what the French call “hautain attitude,” are conclusive. The best interpretation that I can offer for this French attitude is: You are not my equal. I am better than you are!

                I have since learned that the confrontational approach the French have is part of who they are. It seems that their way of starting a dialogue is to begin with either: Non! Or . . . et alors?

                Maybe it is not quite that way. It is my take on it. I suppose that it is probably better than taking out a gun, shooting you first, and then asking questions later.

                 Her attitude clearly indicated it was wiser to keep your cool because the next thing she would probably get on your case letting you have it with both barrels.

                She was a medium height girl, with striking features, classic, high cheekbones, big elusive, bright green eyes, and a sensual mouth; a face, really, that depending on the situation could be disdainful or welcoming.

                What I like to call a Parisian female face that by your trying to ignore it forces you to pay close attention.

                Her hair was light, silky brown that fell softly on her shoulders.

                She was a very eye-catching girl no question about it and she knew it; flaunted it, which made it worse. You could see that in her body language. Again, the attitude says: I am better than you!

                Such an attitude can also put you off because such women always pull rank. It makes you think how unfair life is to women who are not as attractive as Jasmin is.

                “You are American, are you not?” She asked in English. Actually, the way she sounded it was more like an accusation where you are guilty from the get go. 

                I could hear in my brain what she would say next: “Off with your head, my friend!” I almost told her to get lost.

                “So, what if I am. What’s it to you?”

                “You know how I know you are American? It is your shoes, they are ugly.”

                “But they are very comfortable.”

                “But still ugly. I hate Americans. All you care about is killing people for profit.”

                I was not surprised by her aggressive attitude. I have learned upon reading about French culture and living here that in general the French do not like anybody who is not them.

                For us, Americans, this attitude strikes us as antagonistic, very unfriendly. However, I have also learned since living here that this attitude is not deep.

                It almost seems like a territorial modus operandi. Like the wolves protecting their territory. If kind of makes you wonder if, next, the French will start pissing on you.

                But to be fair, once you understand that their attitude has really nothing to do with whether you are American—as in my case or any other nationality—then you can figure out that it is not personal, and you discover the French to be normal, decent, great, people.

                But you really have to take your time to learn to deal with “I am better than you” attitude that they display. Once you get the hang of such an attitude and reciprocate it, things turn pretty normal; you have earned their respect!

                As to her comments that all we Americans care is killing people for profit, it sounded self-serving.

                “That’s not true.”

                “Yes, it is. Look what you are doing in Vietnam? Is that not what your American society does very efficiently?”

                “We’re saving them from becoming communists.”

                “And what is wrong with being communists?”

                “Well, if you enjoy living in Gulag countries, I guess that’s fine.”

                “You know the other things I hate about Americans besides the shoes you wear?”

                “That we’re not communists?”

                “That and that you are also capitalist pigs. Money is your raison d’être. No culture, no morals, no history, no art, plenty of vulgarity, all superficial, grubbiness, greediness, credit cards, underarm deodorant, violence and guns. Your society is vile, it is nulle—useless.”

                “You left racist out of that.” I was just trying to be funny.

                “Yes, your society is racist! Can you deny that? No. But I do not know you personally to call you a racist.”

                “You’ve expressed just about every ugly thing in the book; you might as well throw that in, too.”

                “There are a few other things that I could call you, but I am a polite person.”

                I looked at her and for a moment, I thought she was joking, but her face told me that she was not.

                “It’s very kind of you. You must be French.”

                I could tell that she was not sure how to react to what I had said; whether she should mock me for stating the obvious, or tell me to get lost.

                “What is it to you?” She was now getting even with me.

                “I was just curious.”

                “Yes, and I am Vietnamese too.”

                I looked at her face directly, and there was nothing Asiatic in her features. She saw my reaction and she gave me a dirty look.

                “Perhaps, racist was a proper word I could have used,” she said.

                “Forgive me for the way I reacted, but my American racism tells me that Vietnamese people do have distinctive Asian features. Lovely in many women, in fact. On the other hand, you do not look like a Vietnamese girl.”

                “My parents are French but I was born there.”

                The way she expressed herself left no doubt that she was very proud of her Vietnamese connection.

                “That figures.”

                “Figures what?”

                “Why you hate Americans.”

                “You are nothing but blood suckers, and baby killers.”

                It is hard to defend yourself against being called “blood suckers, and baby killers,” especially from a good-looking girl, a couple of minutes after you meet her.

                “I love your English, where did you learn it?”

                “Here, there, everywhere. I went to boarding school.”

                “And at boarding school, do they teach you how to speak English with such a toxic tone?”

                “It is how everybody talks.”

                “Was it here or in the U.S. that you went to boarding school that you were so lucky to learn such an eloquent manner of expressing yourself in English?”

                “In Baltimore.”

                “No wonder.”

                “No wonder what?”

                “Your diction, your vocabulary, your fluency, your . . .”

                “And what is wrong with Baltimore?”

                “Nothing, really. My question though: What’s a French-dash-Vietnamese girl going to boarding school in Baltimore?”

                She dismissed my question with a wave of her hand. While she was talking, she continued to hand the flyers to people passing by.

                I noticed that guys would stop, look at her, she would give them a dazzling smile, and the flyers would promptly disappear from her hands. I chuckled.

                “It was my father’s fault. He loves America!”

                “Good for him.”

                “Actually, I wanted to go to Italy to learn Italian.”

                “I love Italian. I speak a little bit.”

                “Say something.”

                “Cara, come sta?”

                “I am not your cara!”

                I broke out into laughter.

                “Okay, how about: Capisco tutto ma non-parlo bene.”

                “What does that mean?”

                “I understand everything but I do not speak Italian well.”

                “I love the sound of Italian language.”

                For an instant, her antagonism had subsided. It had changed her looks.

                “Me, too. So why didn’t you go to Italy?”

                “My father was going to be a visiting professor for International Studies at John Hopkins University. So, he forced me to go with him and I was too young to tell him no. He then stuck me in a boarding school while there.”

                “Was it really that bad?”

                “It was worse than bad. It was ugly. It was vulgar. I learned nothing but bad habits.”

                “Like what?”

                Her previous severe attitude that seemed to have disappeared a few moments ago, as we continued talking, came back with vengeance.

                “Like how to swear and use bad language; how to lie; how to become greedy; how to chew bubble gum; how to cheat in your exams; how to eat tasteless fast food; how to wait until the night before a big test and cram; how to steal at supermarkets; how to smoke . . .”

                “Wait a second those bad habits exist here in France, too.”

                “Not true.”

                “Look at all those people smoking their stinking Gauloises.”

                “For once I agree with you. Smoking is a habit I do not care for.”

                I did wonder if she stole things at supermarkets here, the way she described as a bad habit learned back in the U.S.

                “I always think that kissing a girl who smokes is like kissing an ashtray,” I said.

                She busted out laughing. Her laughter changed her looks immensely.

                “Oh, how disgusting. Do you smoke?”

                “No.”

                I think she expected me to say that I did smoke, which would have given her a reason to make additional negative comments.

                My saying no seemed to have thrown her off. The look she gave me was one of suspicion, however.

                I did not think that she really believed me. I decided to use a different tack. 

                “How long were you in Baltimore?”

                “Too long.”

                “Does your father teach here at the Sorbonne?”

                “No. He teaches at the Science Po. Do you know it?”

                “That’s where French students go to become radical left, right?”

                “Nonsense. They are all bourgeois. They pretend to be of ‘the people’ while drinking champagne, eating foie gras, and caviar.”

                “Is that why they are called: Gauche caviar?”

                “Oh, you know about that.”

                “I read it somewhere, yes. What is a bobo?”

                She started to laugh.

                “Where did you hear that?”

                “I don’t know . . .”

                “It is an expression to make fun of others. It means: Bohemian/Bourgeoisie.”
                “Are you a bobo?”

                “Jamais de la vie—Never!”

                “But you have eaten caviar?”

                “Yes, but I am not gauche caviar. And you, have you eaten caviar?”

                “No, but I wouldn’t mind tasting it one day.”

                “It is kind of salty.”

                “Yeah, I heard that. And foie gras, do you eat that, too?”

                “Yes. It is very French. Many people, mostly foreigners, do not approve the way it is made.”

                “Yes, I read that. But you like it?”

                “Yes. Why not?”

                I could see that talking about a very French food specialty I would most likely end up getting a lecture on French superior culinary tastes. I did not pursue it.

                “Are you a student here or at Science Po?”

                “Here. I took the entrance exam at Science Po and passed it. But to be in the same school where my father teaches is a bad idea. What if I got a class with him and he gives me a bad grade. I do not want that problem.”

                “Would he give you a bad grade, really?”

                “Absolutely!”

                “Even if you don’t deserve it?”

                “There would be a big argument, and I would lose.”

                “Is your father that tough?”         

                “Yes, he is.”

                “Do you hate him?”

                She looked at me as if I had said the most stupid thing in the world.

                “Hate him? Why?”

                “Because he gives you a bad grade.”

                “If I deserve such a grade, it is my fault.”

                “He must be a special kind of father.”

                “I am crazy about Jean Luc. He is the best!”

                Her voice was filled with both affection and conviction.

                “You call him by his first name?”

                “He told me I could do that. He is my father, but he is also my friend! I am not like Americans who hate their parents.”

                “Not all American hate their parents.”

                “Most do.”

                I could guess that Jasmin was someone who could always find a way to declare her dislike of Americans no matter the nature and origin of the conversation.

                “What about your mother, do you call her by her first name?”

                “Yes, but only when I am upset with her.”

                “What’s her name?”

                “Adèle. I love my parents. They are incredible. The best parents to have.”

                “But only when you are not upset with your mom, and not having an argument with your father about a bad grade.”

                “Do you get upset with your parents?”

                “Yes, many times, of course. Everybody does.  Coming to the Sorbonne makes you what, someone special?”

                “No, just a normal student,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

                “So, you are not a bobo.”

                She looked at me and I could see that she was ready to make a comment, but at the last minute she changed her mind.

                While we were talking, she continued to distribute flyers to people walking by.

                Again, guys would stop, she would smile at them, and they would take the flyers while smiling back at her.

                There was no doubt that she used her looks and charm to get people to take the flyers.

                “What about your mother?” I asked her.

                “What about her?”

                “I imagine having lived in Vietnam she probably hates Americans, and most probably would hate me, especially me.”

                “Why especially you?”

                “Because I was in Vietnam . . . I was in the military.”

                Her looks hardened. I could see she was trying to come to terms with her anti-American sentiment while at the same time, perhaps, trying to remain civil in spite of the fact that she had already insulted me, plenty.

                “Yes, she would dislike you,” Jasmin said, after a long silence.     “She refused to come to the U.S. when my father decided to go.”

                “What does your mom do?”

                “She is a child psychologist.”

                “She must be disappointed in how you turned out.”

                I was just trying to make a joke. I hoped that she would get it.

                “On the contrary, I am like her.”

                She did not get the joke. There was a definite sense of defiance about Jasmin. It was not only how she spoke but also her body language. Again, it felt like at any moment she would spring for your throat.

                I have mentioned already that this confrontational attitude that the French exhibit toward others can be confusing and offensive to non-French people. We are not used to that.

                But I also sensed that in how she acted reflected a kind of fragility mixed with sensibilities that we all try to hide.

                Her speech and manner struck me as being a way of defending herself against a hostile world.

                The paradox of wanting to be of the world and yet realizing that very often the world does not accept you. I was not sure if she was really a contrarian, or if this was just the way for her to assert her own personality.

                For an instant, it occurred to me that beautiful, intelligent, women have a tough time dealing with the struggle of being physically attractive and yet wanting to be considered normal by those looking at them.

                “You know, I actually thought of applying to Science Po,” I said.

                “An American leftist? That would be like, what is the word you use . . . something moron?”

                “An Oxymoron.”

                “Yes, that is it!”

                “The waiting list was a mile long, so I didn’t do it.”

                “Dieux merci–thank god.”

                The way she said it, I could imagine that she must have felt that keeping American savages out of Science Po was a top priority. 

                “To tell you the truth,” I said, “I had heard about students at the Science Po, who were phony leftists.”

                “Not all of them.”

                “And you didn’t want to be one of the phony ones.”

                “I did not want to be like Americans who pretend to be for the ‘people’ while voting for Nixon.”

                “I love your accent when you speak English.”

                “Most likely I would not love your accent when you speak French.”

                “You are right. My accent is atrocious.”

                “When Americans try to speak French, it sounds evil.”

                I started to laugh. However, she was not laughing. She was serious.

                “It is true,” she continued. “When you speak French, you corrupt our beautiful language with your vulgar Yanqui accent.”

                “So, is there anything that you like about America?”

                “Hard question. I will let you know.”

                “And when could that be?”

                She looked at me and I could see by her body language that meeting again would most likely occur in another lifetime.

                “Probably never. Yes, I like American music. I like Waylen Jennings, Fats Domino, and Miles Davis’s music, among others.”

                “Not bad choices.”

                “My father has always loved Davis’s music. He has a few albums of his music that he treasures. My mother and I are permitted to listen to the records, but we have to be very careful with them. Are you familiar with his music?”

                “Yes, but probably not as much as your father.”

                “I also like Hootenanny music.”

                “Where did you learn about that?”

                “Here, there, everywhere.”

                “Just like you learned English.”

                “Are you saying I have no right to like this music?”

                “No. It is a very special kind of American folk music. Not too many people are familiar with it, certainly not too many foreigners.”

                “Well, I am!”

                Her tone, again, was defiant and unfriendly. It also felt like she was challenging me to say something negative both about the music, and about her liking it so she could get on my case.

                “I guess you are.”

                “I also like the Beatles’ music.”

                “Me too, but they are British not American.”

                “You do not believe I know the difference?”

                I was not sure if she was looking for a fight, or maybe that was just normal behavior on her part. I could not tell.

                “Please excuse me, I did not mean the way it sounded.”

                “What is your favorite song from the Beatles?”

                “It’s hard to choose. There are so many of them.”

                “It is true. But for me is Hey Jude.” She was very formal.

                “Really. I would have guessed that it was Yesterday.”

                “I love Yesterday,” she said, and there was softness in her voice.

                “But Hey Jude is more complex. I believe it reflects the reality of the group.”

                “I can see that. And the Rolling Stones?”

                “The bad boys of rock & roll.” Her face lit up. “All of my classmates in Baltimore thought of them as musical gangsters. And I agree with them . . . ‘I can’t get no satisfaction’ . . .” She sang, and laughed and her looks changed.

                “I also like Simon and Garfunkel,” she continued. “Bride over Trouble Waters is a wonderful album. My friend Sophie is crazy about it.”

                I thought, she could not be that bad if she likes the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Hootenanny music, and Simon and Garfunkel.

                Another girl approached us. She was also carrying a bunch of flyers.

                “Jasmin, qu’est-ce que tu fais? Il faut distribuer ces trucs, ma fille—Jasmin, what are you doing? You have to distribute the flyers, girl.”            She handed Jasmin more flyers.

                “Oui, Sophie, je sais–yes, Sophie, I know.”

                “Tu perds ton temps avec celui-là—you are wasting your time talking to him.”

                “Tu crois?—Do you think?”

                “Tu vois bien c’est an Amerlock, regard ces chaussures—you can see he is an Amerlock . . . look at his shoes.”

                I started to laugh. Amerlock, is a slang word that the French use when talking about Americans. It is probably the equivalent of us calling them Frogs.

                Chaussures–shoes, American shoes, were the give away with these two girls in terms of forming a negative first impression of you, and they made that very clear.

                I suppose that if one were to find a way of disliking strangers, the shoes they wear would be a good start.

                “Are you a student here?” Jasmin asked.

                “I love your name.”

                “That is the wrong answer.”

                “Jasmin is not a typical French name, is it?”

                “Yes, it is old French. It was adopted from Persia long time ago. The English copied it. They spell it with an e at the end; the French spell it without the e.”

                “It is a beautiful name!’

                She gave me a nice smile in response to my compliment, which kind of surprised me.

                “And yes, I am a new student here and I don’t know why my shoes offend you,” I said.

                “Well, they are so . . . American.”

                I looked down at my shoes.

                “You’re right,” I said.

                Then I looked at her feet. She was wearing open-toed sandals and I could guess that the sandals were carefully chosen to enhance the look of her feet.

                “What do you study?” She asked.

                “Dentistry.”

                I do not know why dentistry as a subject of my studies popped into my head. Maybe it had to do with looking at her teeth. They were perfect and very white.

                Anyway, I was hoping she would get the humor, as dentistry is not what one studies at the Sorbonne.

                “At the Sorbonne?” Of course, she did not believe me.

                “Yes, the finest dentistry school in the world.”

                Her expression showed she was not sure if she should laugh or scowl at me.

                “T’es droll–you are funny. See you around.”

                “What’s your last name?”

                “Why?”

                “I am just curious.”

                “I do not have one.”

                “A French girl without a last name.”

                “C’est la vie. Vive la France!”

                “Aren’t you going to let me have one of your flyers?”

                “You had your chance.”

                “Fine, be that way.”

                She stopped, thought for a moment, but she did not give me a flyer. Then shaking her head, she walked back to where other students were standing, and took a bunch of flyers from one of them and continued handing them out.

                She had great legs, along with a well-sculpted body. Vive les miniskirts!

                I thought, whoever her boyfriend is, he is either some lucky bastard or a guy in hell.