We'll Always Have Paris (5 page)

“How’s it going?” William asked when Katie fell off.

“The only bad thing is missing you.”

***

People often asked why William didn’t join us on our travels. One day he will, and it will be wonderful. But he has a solo law practice and cannot get away to Europe even for a week. There are too many weddings and family reunions that eat away at his travel time. Plus, he’s been all over the world already, so for now it’s just Katie and me. Another wife might wait until William could come along, but my game clock is ticking. If I had known my father’s was too, I would have stowed away in his duffel bag and joined him in Europe for a summer.

My father spent about half of his time in Europe pursuing his music career, and my mother did not allow overseas travel with him. I can’t say I blame her. As much as he loved me, it would’ve been only a matter of days before he mistakenly left me at a hash bar in Amsterdam, his favorite of all cities.

Holland was the country of my father’s greatest career success. His song “Only a Fool” went gold and ranked number three in the 1970s, beating the John Travolta–Olivia Newton-John duet “You’re the One That I Want” from the movie
Grease
. His writing partner Norman tells me that today the song has been covered more than sixty times and has been translated into dozens of languages.

The only overnight visit I had with my father was a weekend in the Catskill Mountains when I was twelve years old. This part of New York typically evokes images of young Woody Allen and Joan Rivers doing their shtick at Borscht Belt comedy clubs. This was not the case at the Sunshine Ranch, which was owned by my father’s friends Morgan and Gayle. Their eight hippie houseguests described the couple as “together” because they owned a hair salon and had auto insurance. As business owners, they could have been labeled bourgeoisie, or worse, establishment. But Morgan and Gayle were members of the tribe and therefore spared of any such judgment.

They were a groovy bunch, a joint passing among them as they sunbathed nude by a small, marshy lake and talked politics, discussed music, and dissected various conspiracy theories. Some guy who called himself Treetop sat Indian-style strumming his guitar, his flaccid penis peeking out from underneath like a snail from its shell. I tried to avert my eyes, but my curiosity got the better of me. I hadn’t seen such a wide variety of genitals since my friend Vickie and I leafed through her mother’s copy of
Our
Bodies, Ourselves
.

I primly set out a beach towel and declined the offer to remove my black Danskin leotard that doubled as a swimsuit. There was nothing sexual about their nudity; it was more like an adult version of
Free
to
Be
You
and
Me
. Still, I wondered why no one questioned whether any of this was appropriate for a twelve-year-old. Before I had a chance to ponder this, the joint came my way. I held out my hand to decline. “I’m trying to cut down,” I told Treetop.
And
also, I’m twelve.

My dad explained to his friend that I was “straight.” He used this label with a neutral tone, but it felt like an apology. His words yearned for mitigation.

I quickly made myself the life of the party. I may not get high, but I could pose confusing questions just like they did. I asked the group if they thought it was possible that Jimmy Carter’s family was behind Elvis’s death. Something to do with peanut rights on Graceland. People tilted their heads to listen to me while I pulled ideas out of thin air. I was in compensation mode, the routine that William calls my
Please
Love
Me
Show
.

The hippies told me I was incredibly deep and complex, stifling back coughs from their last hit. Inside the house, Gayle, a Cher-like goddess, sought my assistance cleaning the bale of weed that was needed for the weekend. We stood at a table made from a barn door under a rainbow-colored parachute that hung like a cloud from the ceiling. Gayle taught me how to break up the buds and gently shake the seeds out onto a sheet of newspaper. She told me I was really good at cleaning grass but was clearly disappointed when my little fingers were incapable of rolling a decent joint. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, but I hated that I couldn’t satisfy her. Gayle was a hairstylist who looked like it had been a decade since her last trim, with wavy brown locks that touched her beaded belt. She was counter-culture glamorous with feather earrings and bits of red bandana patching the knees of her jeans. When she wore shoes, they were suede-fringed clogs. As a reward for helping with grass prep, Gayle took me horseback riding on their sprawling property. I had been riding for years, but this was the first time I went bareback; Gayle insisted that saddles and reins were oppressive, so I held tight to the horse’s mane, secured by only my legs, and hoped this would be like the lessons my mother scrounged to afford. I was accustomed to riding in a groomed corral where the dress code was tan jodhpurs, white tops, and black velvet hard hats with chin guards. Gayle didn’t even bother with a bra.

***

I gasped with delight when I saw a poster announcing that an American gospel choir was performing at Sainte-Chapelle, a church in Paris. Katie was too young to remember our first time hearing gospel music, when I took our family to an African-American church in San Diego. It was near Christmas and my mother was visiting from New York; our family represented four of maybe ten white faces in the large congregation. Though my mother is vampirically pale, she is able to fit in anywhere because of her willingness to simply jump in and become part of the scene, especially when hats and drama are involved. Within twenty minutes, she was shouting things like “Teach!” and “Amen!” When the reverend asked anyone who had been moved by the spirit of the Lord to please stand and come to the front of the church, she was the first to stand and begin making her way out of the pew.

“Where are you going?” I asked my mother, who had recently told us that her guru said Jesus walked to India and lived on an ashram with his wife before returning for his crucifixion.

“To the front of the church,” she replied a tad smugly, as if she had been hand-selected.

“They’re going to try to save you, Carol,” William whispered.

“From what?”

“For God’s sake, sit down, Mother.”

Since Katie had no memory of this, I explained it to her on the way to the performance.

Parisians do gospel differently.

As the choir of purple-robed American singers took the stage, they greeted the audience in French. Then in English. When the choirmaster asked the audience to get on our feet and start clapping, we rose up obediently with the other half-dozen Americans. We had now been in Paris a week and could spot our fellow countrymen with ease: white sneakers and the ready smile were telltale signs.

The choirmaster barked in French, and reluctantly people began to rise and clap halfheartedly.

I felt conflicted. I wanted to clap along so the gospel choir would feel appreciated but didn’t want to call attention to myself as one of a handful of rubes echoing the words to “When the Saints Come Marching In.” I looked at Katie, who was clapping her hands and bending her knees without an ounce of self-consciousness. She smiled at me.

“This is fun, Mommy. But no one is fainting,” as I had promised.

“Get down on the ground!” the choirmaster sang rhythmically, then translated it into French. People began to murmur among themselves. They figured they were already being good sports with this standing and clapping nonsense.

A French woman beside me said to her friend that this man was crazy if he thought she was going to get down on the ground. “This is Chanel,” she said in French, gesturing to her elegant suit.

***

By the following evening, Katie’s enthusiasm for museums waned and she needed a playground like a monkey needs trees. When we arrived at Luxembourg Gardens, Katie’s eyes gleamed at the giant rope web, the jungle gym, and the slides. Although it was past closing time and the gates to the playground were locked, four families romped about. “How?” I asked in French. “How you are here?”

A father who looked like he might have fit in well at Gayle and Morgan’s Sunshine Ranch told me to hop the fence. “It is goot,” he told me, speaking English with a German accent. “We jump fence,” he said, gesturing to the group. His wife, a petite woman with a mass of armpit hair peeking from her green tank top, joined him at the fence.

“Ah yes, we all jump over the fence when park closes. Eet ees what ees done,” she said. Her French accent made her words more assuring. She knew the customs. Plus, there were three other families with them. Surely this was okay.

I looked at Katie, whose face was pressed against the gate like a prisoner watching a parade. “Do you want to hop the fence?” I asked.

“Will we get in trouble?” Katie asked.

“These people say it’s okay.”

The couple that I will forevermore think of as Gunther and Marie helped Katie over the fence, where she hit the ground running. She climbed the rope spider’s web with the other children. After my more laborious entry over the iron gate, I smiled proudly. I had done it. I was in Paris doing as the French did. I was enjoying life!

Ten minutes later, our group was in a small room at a nearby police station about to be booked for trespassing. I was terrified, but Marie was irate, yelling at the officer in French at an incomprehensible speed. She slammed her fist on the desk, threw her hands in the air, and stomped her foot. The officer remained expressionless and continued smoking as he filled out our citations. I noticed a slice of baguette and cheese on a plate next to his ashtray and nervously whispered to Katie, “What, no wine?”

The tension broke. At least among the prisoners. Inspector Clouseau was not amused. “You know I speak Engleesh?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“
Pardon, pardon
,” I offered.

We
are
screwed!

“I
never
drink wine while serving my job!” he barked.

“
D’accord, d’accord
,” I offered. “
Je
suis
kidding. Um…
keeding, ze joke, ha ha,
like Jerry Lewis.
C’est bon,
Jerry Lewis?”

Clouseau looked tired of me, of all of us. He quickly scanned the room and concluded that he had neither the time nor energy to issue a dozen separate citations. He looked at Marie and spoke in rapid-fire French. She told us we were free to go. “He says that if any of us ever do the smallest wrong in Paris again, we will go to jail,” she translated. We all nodded obediently and scurried from the station.

***

The following day, Katie and I found the Shakespeare and Company bookstore on the Left Bank across the river from Notre Dame. On rue de la Bûcherie, at the edge of the Latin Quarter, stood a seventeenth-century monastery that housed Europe’s largest collection of English language books for sale.

New and used books lined every wall, cluttered and haphazardly organized. A mirrored wall included photos of authors who had visited, including Henry Miller, Anaïs Nin, and Allen Ginsberg. A cat snuggled in the corner under a corkboard listing literary events and readings. It was a cozy haven that made me long for a pot of tea and a thunderstorm.

Painted over a threshold of the three-story bibliophilic heaven were the words “Be not inhospitable to strangers, lest they be angels in disguise.” Discreetly placed in the landscape was evidence that Shakespeare and Company lived this philosophy. Small cots, bedrolls, pillows, and backpacks were tucked between bookshelves.

“Do people sleep here?” Katie asked the clerk, who was about twenty years old with Bettie Page bangs, a vintage dress, and Doc Marten Mary Janes. I imagined her name was something like Prudence or Cleo.

In a posh British accent, Cleo explained that travelers were welcome to sleep at the bookstore if they worked a few hours during the day. These guests were endearingly called “Tumbleweeds” and could stay anywhere from a few nights to several months.

Tapping on her computer, Cleo continued, “Or, if you’re a writer, you can stay as our guest in the studio.”

“My mom’s a writer!” Katie exclaimed, standing on the toes of her white sandals. “Google her.”

Katie’s face begged for the sleepover.

Fear of dying young isn’t an altogether bad thing. Sometimes it makes you try what you might otherwise delay. I found myself agreeing to Katie’s requests, justifying that my indulgence would solidify fond memories.

“Check-in is at midnight,” Cleo told us before returning to her work.

At the appointed hour, Katie and I sat on a bench next to a half-dozen disaffected youth with pierced faces and unnaturally black hair. Their stained canvas backpacks sported logos of bands with names like Blistered Anus.

“Ouch,” Katie commented to a fellow Tumbleweed.

“They’re crap since they lost their drummer,” he returned in a sweet English accent.

In her pigtails and bedazzled tank top, Katie shrugged. “That can happen.” She had absolutely no idea about how a change of musician could affect a group, but pursed her lips as though she’d been through it a few times herself. I admired her immediate acceptance of and connection to life around her.

Another mother and her young daughter knocked on the locked door, apologizing for being late for check-in. Looking like characters from
Les
Misérables
, the mother and barefoot Cosette explained they lost track of time in the Bastille Day festivities.

As we were shown to the Writer’s Studio, I had three thoughts about spending the night in the same bed where Henry James slept. One, they hadn’t changed the sheets since. Two, Katie’s bed was actually a yoga mat on top of a door that was resting on two file cabinets. These cabinets, I should add, were not of equal height. And three, Andy Griffith looked awfully young on that box of Ritz crackers in the corner.

A tornado of gnats came from the water spigot. Our window did not open more than a few inches. The room was situated directly above a row of trash receptacles.