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Monday, July 28, 2008
Au Revoir, Le Juillet
Goodbye, July! What aspects of this red, white, and blue month have you enjoyed? Barbecues? Crazy thunderstorms? Young Americans dying for nothing under the scorching Middle Eastern sun? Or perhaps, if you are continentally inclined, "le tricoleur" and Bastille Day? With semi-naked French dwarves gyrating to sappy, insipid music? Oh wait, that was just me and Carla Bruni.
One feckless July I arrived in Paris in time for "Le Quatorze juillet", where I planned to meet up with my friend Charlie Hunter and pass the hat for the buskers, while I worked on a novel which never transpired. The details of my plans were hazy, and I was broke. But apart from my go-go dancing job, nothing of interest was holding me in San Francisco. I got off the plane, and since I had not bothered to book a hostel, I decided, with the logic of a recently homeless youth, that I would head up to Sacré Coeur cathedral and hang out with the street musicians all night until an opportunity for accommodations arose. Sure enough, after a few minutes, I was engaged in a conversation with a small man who offered to help me find a cheap room. His name was Danny. I was a tiny bit apprehensive, but I reasoned that Danny couldn't harm me. I figured that since he was a dwarf, I could take him on if he tried anything; and since he was black, he probably wouldn't try, as any black man with an ounce of sense would be aware of the severe repercussions should he try to harm the lily white. Danny explained that there were several cheap hotels in nearby Place Clichy, and we set off.
But first Danny had to get a coffee. This turned into several coffees at several different cafes. Our conversation was stilted, as my French was basic, and I was very tired after my long flight. Finally, I entreated Danny to take me to the cheap hotels. Danny explained, since it was now so late and the hotels would be closed, that my only alternative was to stay at his apartment. Although I realized this wasn't particularly prudent, I relented, reminding myself that I could take Danny on if anything bad happened.
Arriving at his tiny home, former maid's quarters at the top of an apartment building, Danny offered that I could sleep in the bed with him. I declined, saying that I was perfectly comfortable on the floor, and began to put my pajamas on. Danny disappeared into a small room on the other side of a beaded curtain, much to my relief. As I drifted off to sleep, colored disco lights and the strains of Billy Ocean awakened me; I looked up as the beaded curtains parted. Danny came forth, wearing only a pair of leopard skin bikini underwear and a gold chain bearing a medallion. He swiveled his hips and rolled his disco fists to the music. I could only gape as he danced toward me in a bizarre simulacrum of eighties eroticism. What should I do now? I certainly was not going to accept the amorous advances of this lilliputian Lothario, but it was the middle of the night. As he started to grope me, my survival instincts kicked in and I flipped out. I leapt up and threw my clothes on, screaming every French and English insult I could think of. Danny, now quailing, begged me in a pathetic whine not to wake the landlady. I grabbed my luggage and ran out the door like an ingénue on a gothic novel cover, half-dressed, with the shadow of a man looming in the darkened doorway behind; or rather, darkening the doorstep, pint-sized.
So much for Franco-American relations, continually on the downswing since then. I realize that not all French people are miniature creeps, though people such as Danny and Nicolas Sarkozy cause me to make that association. Perhaps the xenophobia of fist-pumping July has rubbed off on me. As Sarkozy slashes France's welfare and social programs, does he wear a leopard print bikini under his suit, just for joie de vivre?
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COMMENTS
If it were nothing, then the Jihadis wouldn't be choosing to fight too.
Maybe the GIs, or the Jihadis, are just targets. Those young Germans on the beaches of Normandy didn't die for nothing, they died so the forces of liberty could win. As did their little sisters roasted in Hamburg.
But it's not nothing.
And I liked the dwarf story.
Posted by: staghounds at July 29, 2008 1:26 PM
any black man with an ounce of sense would be aware of the severe repercussions should he try to harm the lily white.
Paris doesn't have a history of lynching, darlin'. The Africans I have met there have all considered themselves free and equal citizens, if they have ever considered the matter at all. It's most refreshing.
Great story!
Posted by: Pretty Lady at August 6, 2008 4:35 PM
Point well taken, Pretty Lady, but there is still this. France has a history of racism, especially toward North Africans and other Africans colonialized by France. To ignore this would be irresponsible. France claims an official policy that all French people are French, and distinctions such as Algerian-French or Mauritanian-French do not exist. This policy sometimes blinds the people to reality. France do not have the same baggage as the US, but they do have baggage.
France is a beautiful country with a wonderful culture. They do a lot of things a lot better than we do. But like the US, they are not beyond reproach.
The main point being, who wants to be molested by any creepy guy in leopard print bikini panties. So yuck.
Posted by: Muire Dougherty at August 9, 2008 11:00 AM
We are in full agreement on that issue. I, too, learned the hard way that testosterone is a deadly poison, which renders the victim incapable of understanding any English other than "F*ck off, you creep," or any French other than "Laisse-moi, du con," delivered in a sufficiently lethal tone of voice.
Posted by: Pretty Lady at August 9, 2008 11:38 PM
CONTRIBUTE TO THE CULTURAL DOGFIGHT