Petite Histoire #1

Friday we went to Versailles.  It was golden and beautiful and everything you would expect.  It was lovely.  But you can find pictures of that online.  Truthfully, after a week of jet lag, a few hours of walking left us tired and hungry.  I was ready to sit and eat.

I’ve taken pride in eating a crêpe (yes I’m going to be obnoxious and put the accents) every day thus far, and Friday was not going to be an exception.  I did a quick google search, and we chose a spot.  Before we could even find the correct street in the crowded Montparnasse circle, Cindy spotted a different restaurant.  There is no such thing as a bad crêpe, so we headed in.

We stood awkwardly in the middle of the crowded restaurant waiting for a table.  We probably looked like lost sheep, and also obvious tourists.

Our little table literally touched the one next to us.  The French don’t care about personal space like Americans do.  I’m also just not used to the crowding of a major city.  Thankfully, the people next to us were friendly.  The snowy-haired gentleman I sat next to said bonjour and a slew of other things I didn’t understand.

It has become a familiar, but still embarrassing dance.

A local says bonjour/bonsoir, I reciprocate and then he/she says something to me so fast I can barely recognize a word.  I blush, apologize and explain to the best of my abilities that I don’t speak French well.  They slow down a bit so I can understand better. They ask where I am from, I explain I’m an American student studying here, so on and so forth.

With the usual difficulty, we made small talk with the man and his friend.  I could tell right away he wasn’t Parisian, his accent was different and he smiled more.  His Burberry print scarf also stuck out which seems funny now, but the Parisian men are loyal to their uniform of neutrals.

We learned he was from Brittany, but has children that live in the United States.

His companion was a friendly, smiling woman from Belgium.  He did most of the talking, whether because of her accent or his own instinct I do not know.

I asked about their trip, he asked us Americans about Donald Trump.  Somewhere in the midst of all this, I half understood that he mentioned the woman was there to keep him company.

Our food came rather quickly and the man and his date finished their coffee and bid us au revoir.

Later, when reflecting on the situation with my roommate, Emma, I learned that we had shared some afternoon crêpes with an old man from Brittany and his escort.

No judgement here, I wouldn’t want to be alone in the City of Love either.

Happy Valentine’s Day.