French Touch v2.0 - 1. Chapter 1

Getting out of the airport was neither fast, nor pleasant. It took us ages to get through immigration and customs. Can you believe that for five flights that came in at the same time they had 6 booths open in total?

6 booths for, like, over 9000people!

Ok, maybe not 9000 but close to 1000 wouldn’t be too farfetched…

Then we had to collect our bags, which by the way weren’t even there waiting for us even though we probably spent 30 minutes in line for immigration alone, and when we did have our bags we had to cross all of the baggage claim area to find the damn exit. My Dad was waiting for us and he helped us carry all of our suitcases to his car outside.

Outside… how I will remember that first day in France. It was raining buckets on the black asphalt, and it was really cold for summer. Compared to the summer up in New York it was cold, almost freezing, couldn’t have been more than 65^oF

Now I don’t know a lot about cars but I had no idea what the logo on my Dad’s car was. It was a lion, but other than that not a clue to its name or anything.

“Hey Dad, what’s the brand of your car?”

“Peugeot, it’s French.”

A French car, really? It didn’t look like much, except a car. Then again it was a car…

I got in the back, and waited for my Dad to start the car. I think it was a stick-shift car too. The lever was very different from the ones on our cars back home. I was proven right when my Dad put it in 1^st.

I looked out the window, nothing really caught my eyes. It all looked so… boring. Was France a boring country?

I had no idea what was written on the boards on the side of the road, I only recognized one word: Paris, my curse, my torture.

Maybe it was the flight that finally caught up with me but my eyes slowly closed, and when I opened them, we were parked in front of a fancy building somewhere.

I looked around. My parents were outside, in the rain, hauling the suitcases inside. I unclasped my seatbelt and went to help them. Inside was actually a sort of driveway that led to an inner courtyard (why didn’t my father get inside with the car I still wonder), to my left was a door to stairs with a red rug that spiraled up. My Dad told us to wait here for a moment and went to park the car.

A moment ended up being close to 15 minutes…

“Sorry about that, parking in Paris can be a nightmare.”

He was dripping wet from the rain, but was still smiling.

What was there to smile though? I was far from anyone I knew, away from Jason, away from my cousins and my Grandma, in exile in a boring country that had welcomed me with a cold rainy summer day.

The door on my left was opened and I was motioned inside.

“We are on the third floor,” my Dad told us.

I looked around for an elevator, seeing none I turned to my father who had a grin on his face.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…” I said.

“Sorry kiddo but you’re going to be working your legs from now on.”

I was too tired at this point to be angry anymore. I just sighed and started hauling things up. Arriving on the third floor I was able to get a first glimpse of our new apartment. I recognized most of the furniture as they were from back home (my Mom and I were in a hotel the last month of the school year, and I had stayed over at Jason or at my cousin's all summer). A lot of cardboard boxes still remained though…

I was led to my room, or should I say closet. The thing was so tiny I couldn’t believe it was actually considered a room in itself. A one-person bed on one side, my desk and bookshelf on the other, and other than that nothing, not that you could have fit anything else in.

Please kill me now…

My Dad started talking to us about the neighborhood and stuff, however, I put up my hand to get his attention, smiled, and then closed my bedroom door forcefully. Collapsing on my bed, I took a big breath and closed my eyes, trying not to think of what was to come.

I woke up a while later and went exploring. I found a note in the kitchen, my parents had left to go grocery shopping, and next to the note was a set of keys. The note said they were mine. I also had to memorize a pin code for the door that was on the street. Feeling much better than before I decided to take a walk around the block, to try and see what Paris was like, the weather having improved.

Just around the corner was what I assumed was a high school. Kids my age were talking loudly to each other, a lot of them smoking without a care in the world. Adults walked past, but none of them seemed to care or even see it. I found this odd to say the least. I think I even saw some teachers smoking with students. I was going to be on my way when my eyes fell on a boy with blond hair and the grayest eyes I had ever seen. He was by himself listening to music. I stood there fascinated by him for a solid minute before his eyes crossed mine. I looked down quickly and began walking again. After a few moments, I took a peek at him. He was looking at me with an amused twinkle in his storm-cloud irises.

I circled the block and went back in. By that time my parents had come back.

“Did you go have a look around James?” my Mom asked me sweetly.

I nodded and slumped in a kitchen chair.

“We were thinking we could go have dinner somewhere, are you up for it sports?” asked my Dad.

I shrugged, and got up to get a glass of water.

“We will head out at 7, it’s early for people here but they are used to it with all the tourists all year round.”

I put on a jacket before going outside, you never know. My Dad had chosen a small café that he found was charming and typical of France.

It was very noisy inside even though the café wasn’t half-full yet, but it felt nice. There was a certain atmosphere that radiated from everywhere. It was very weird. We sat down at a table and waited for the menu.

I had no idea what any of the proposed dishes were, my French was very, very limited, and sadly it did not cover the food part of the language. On my Dad’s advice I took a steak with mashed potatoes. You could say it was very un-original of me, but I didn’t really care I wanted to feel American for as long as possible.

What I was not prepared for, however, was the difference a steak and mashed potatoes could have an ocean apart. The steak came coated in a sauce that I can’t describe, and the mashed potatoes were not at all the same thing as those back home. There was a very subtle change in something… I devoured my plate, which I found quite small…

“It is how the French like it,” my Dad had answered after I had complained. “It is much more common here to have an entrée-plat-dessert course.”

I waited for my parents to finish their plates. I wasn’t really looking at anything, just taking in the place, when my eyes fell on a weirdly familiar face. It was the same boy from this afternoon. He was eating with what I assumed were his parents. I was so surprised I didn’t look away, and once more he caught sight of me. Again our eyes met, this time surprise showed on his face. Surprise that was fast hidden. He went back to talking with his parents, but from time to time he would glance back at me and smile.

We left after dessert, which for me was a “mousse au chocolat.” I later found out how they make this heavenly chocolate mouthful of joy, they beat egg whites a very long time until they rise, they melt dark chocolate with butter, and then incorporate the beaten whites in the chocolate.

I took off my clothes, and went under my covers in nothing but my underwear. Too tired to jerk off, I closed my eyes. The image of the blond haired boy popped up in my mind, making me smile. Then sleep took me for a dreamless ride.

I had some time this week-end to write, but I can't promise anything for this week.
I don't know when I will update this story as I won't be home the week after that at all...
I'll see you all soon I hope!
Have a great day