Paris, 1993
I often wonder what my life would be like now if I had made a different decision in July, 1993. I was traipsing around Europe that summer. I was nineteen, dating a girl who would become my first wife. "First Wife," a phrase which indicates that she was, and/or is not my current wife. Ugh... another story altogether, but not really. In any case, at that time I had a steady income from an annuity set up to see me through university, I was living at home and going to school at Sac. City College.
I arrived in France on 3 July. My intention was that I would stay a week, then I was going on to Rome by way of Lyon and Turin. On the evening of 11 July, the train workers in Italy went on strike. Apparently this was not an unusual occurrence at the time, nor is it today, I imagine. I was in Turin at the time, in the train station in the middle of the night. The train bound for Rome was not going anywhere any time soon, and one of the French conductors suggested that I had, essentially, three choices: 1. I could wait and see if the strike ended quickly, and then take the next train to Rome. 2. I could rent a car and drive to Rome. 3. I could get back on the French train and go back to Paris. Option one was a bit frightening, as there was no "Euro" then, I had no Italian money, and very minimal knowledge of the language. It was past ten pm, pouring rain, and I had no idea where in Turin I was, not that such knowledge would have been all that helpful. Option two was entertained briefly, as there was an American girl on my train who was scheduled to fly out of Rome the next morning, and she offered to split the cost of a car rental... As interesting as that story would likely have been, we decided that, having never driven in Italy, and knowing the reputation of Italian drivers, we would be better off not attempting such a trek. Option three, it was, then. She and I got back on the French train and shared a car all the way back to Paris. She was worn out from her European odyssey and slept most of the way. I read and thought about what awaited me in Paris.
Late in the afternoon of 1 July, I boarded a train in Killarney, Ireland. I disembarked in Cork, and boarded a rather large boat bound for Calais. Twenty two hours on a boat in the North Atlantic. Oddly enjoyable because of the group of students (from the University of Washington) I met in the bar. I was doing my weirdo-traveler thing, sitting in the bar on the boat drinking beer and reading Tolstoy. One of the girls from the group came to my table and asked what I was reading. She was surprised to find out that I was American, I guess I did not give off an American vibe in my seersucker suit and oxblood Doc Martins. They invited me to join them at their table, so of course I did. We spent the rest of the boat-ride hanging out, drinking, listening to live jazz, and not sleeping. When the boat docked in Calais we had to run, literally, to catch the train for Paris. At eight AM, after twenty-plus hours on a boat, running while carrying a large bag was not enjoyable, but the five of us made it to the train. When we reached Paris, we split up with the agreement that we would meet up later that evening to celebrate our first night in Paris. I checked into a great hotel, the Hotel Troyon, just off of the Champs Elysees.
That night, I met up with the UW kids, and we wandered the streets of Paris until quite late. We found our way to a Metro station where we came across a couple of guys busking. Great singers, actually. They were doing a really good job with "No Woman No Cry," and had attracted quite a little crowd. I found myself standing next to an absolutely stunning young woman, dressed all in black, her curly black hair pulled loosely away from her face in an untidy pony-tail. I mustered the courage to ask, in French, how she liked the performance. I thought I had done a pretty good job with the question, so when she looked at me and said with a thick New York accent "oh, you're American?" I was slightly miffed. I laughed it off and we chatted a bit. I was intrigued, and I suppose she must have been as well. She gave me her phone number in Paris, and we agreed to get together in the next few days. As it turned out, we had lunch the next day, went out that night, picnicked the following day in the Jardin de Luxembourg, walked around Paris in the middle of the night the next night, had dinner with her brother (who was in town with his jazz band, having just played at Montreux)...
In other words, we hit it off pretty nicely. Nothing romantic, particularly, but a fast friendship. I got to know many of the students with whom she studied, learned a bit about her, and got a glimpse of a life that I envied and coveted. When I left for Rome, I was fairly certain that I would never see her again. We had exchanged addresses, and planned to write, but that was all. Imagine what I spent most of the train-trip back to Paris thinking about...
I arrived back in Paris early in the morning of 13 July. 14 July is Bastille Day, France's most important national holiday, and the thirteenth is a day of parties. I checked into a hotel, slept for a few hours, woke up around noon and got some food. When I called Elena (Paris-girl) she seemed pleasantly surprised that I was back in Paris. We met up, along with her whole group, that afternoon and plotted our Bastille Day-Eve activities. We ended the evening at a bar in the Latin Quarter called "Route 66," run by Australians... talk about international. I danced with all of the girls in our party, drank screwdrivers, we sang along to "Hip Hop Hooray," and at the end of the night, I walked back to my hotel, and marveled at the fact that an ice cream shop on the Champs Elysees was open and busy at three in the morning.
A few days later, it was time for me to leave Paris again, this time for good. I was going on to Germany, to stay with friends of my mother. I would be flying out of Frankfurt within a week or so, headed back to my girlfriend, my school, my life. Looking back, the decision I question is this: I could have stayed. I could have, instead of getting on that plane in Frankfurt, gotten onto a train bound for Paris. I could have found a cheap apartment and stayed. I had income, I didn't need to work (which is good, because it was almost as hard for an American to work legally in France then as it is now!), I could have tried to get into a school there, written, played music, and generally lived a bohemian, expat sort of existence. I would likely never have married my girlfriend, which means I would never have divorced her, either.
I am not unhappy, but I still wonder what my life would have become had I stayed in Paris. I will tell my children this story, hopefully it will encourage them to go out on that limb and do the things that inspire them. Maybe someone who reads this will be inspired...
I arrived in France on 3 July. My intention was that I would stay a week, then I was going on to Rome by way of Lyon and Turin. On the evening of 11 July, the train workers in Italy went on strike. Apparently this was not an unusual occurrence at the time, nor is it today, I imagine. I was in Turin at the time, in the train station in the middle of the night. The train bound for Rome was not going anywhere any time soon, and one of the French conductors suggested that I had, essentially, three choices: 1. I could wait and see if the strike ended quickly, and then take the next train to Rome. 2. I could rent a car and drive to Rome. 3. I could get back on the French train and go back to Paris. Option one was a bit frightening, as there was no "Euro" then, I had no Italian money, and very minimal knowledge of the language. It was past ten pm, pouring rain, and I had no idea where in Turin I was, not that such knowledge would have been all that helpful. Option two was entertained briefly, as there was an American girl on my train who was scheduled to fly out of Rome the next morning, and she offered to split the cost of a car rental... As interesting as that story would likely have been, we decided that, having never driven in Italy, and knowing the reputation of Italian drivers, we would be better off not attempting such a trek. Option three, it was, then. She and I got back on the French train and shared a car all the way back to Paris. She was worn out from her European odyssey and slept most of the way. I read and thought about what awaited me in Paris.
Late in the afternoon of 1 July, I boarded a train in Killarney, Ireland. I disembarked in Cork, and boarded a rather large boat bound for Calais. Twenty two hours on a boat in the North Atlantic. Oddly enjoyable because of the group of students (from the University of Washington) I met in the bar. I was doing my weirdo-traveler thing, sitting in the bar on the boat drinking beer and reading Tolstoy. One of the girls from the group came to my table and asked what I was reading. She was surprised to find out that I was American, I guess I did not give off an American vibe in my seersucker suit and oxblood Doc Martins. They invited me to join them at their table, so of course I did. We spent the rest of the boat-ride hanging out, drinking, listening to live jazz, and not sleeping. When the boat docked in Calais we had to run, literally, to catch the train for Paris. At eight AM, after twenty-plus hours on a boat, running while carrying a large bag was not enjoyable, but the five of us made it to the train. When we reached Paris, we split up with the agreement that we would meet up later that evening to celebrate our first night in Paris. I checked into a great hotel, the Hotel Troyon, just off of the Champs Elysees.
That night, I met up with the UW kids, and we wandered the streets of Paris until quite late. We found our way to a Metro station where we came across a couple of guys busking. Great singers, actually. They were doing a really good job with "No Woman No Cry," and had attracted quite a little crowd. I found myself standing next to an absolutely stunning young woman, dressed all in black, her curly black hair pulled loosely away from her face in an untidy pony-tail. I mustered the courage to ask, in French, how she liked the performance. I thought I had done a pretty good job with the question, so when she looked at me and said with a thick New York accent "oh, you're American?" I was slightly miffed. I laughed it off and we chatted a bit. I was intrigued, and I suppose she must have been as well. She gave me her phone number in Paris, and we agreed to get together in the next few days. As it turned out, we had lunch the next day, went out that night, picnicked the following day in the Jardin de Luxembourg, walked around Paris in the middle of the night the next night, had dinner with her brother (who was in town with his jazz band, having just played at Montreux)...
In other words, we hit it off pretty nicely. Nothing romantic, particularly, but a fast friendship. I got to know many of the students with whom she studied, learned a bit about her, and got a glimpse of a life that I envied and coveted. When I left for Rome, I was fairly certain that I would never see her again. We had exchanged addresses, and planned to write, but that was all. Imagine what I spent most of the train-trip back to Paris thinking about...
I arrived back in Paris early in the morning of 13 July. 14 July is Bastille Day, France's most important national holiday, and the thirteenth is a day of parties. I checked into a hotel, slept for a few hours, woke up around noon and got some food. When I called Elena (Paris-girl) she seemed pleasantly surprised that I was back in Paris. We met up, along with her whole group, that afternoon and plotted our Bastille Day-Eve activities. We ended the evening at a bar in the Latin Quarter called "Route 66," run by Australians... talk about international. I danced with all of the girls in our party, drank screwdrivers, we sang along to "Hip Hop Hooray," and at the end of the night, I walked back to my hotel, and marveled at the fact that an ice cream shop on the Champs Elysees was open and busy at three in the morning.
A few days later, it was time for me to leave Paris again, this time for good. I was going on to Germany, to stay with friends of my mother. I would be flying out of Frankfurt within a week or so, headed back to my girlfriend, my school, my life. Looking back, the decision I question is this: I could have stayed. I could have, instead of getting on that plane in Frankfurt, gotten onto a train bound for Paris. I could have found a cheap apartment and stayed. I had income, I didn't need to work (which is good, because it was almost as hard for an American to work legally in France then as it is now!), I could have tried to get into a school there, written, played music, and generally lived a bohemian, expat sort of existence. I would likely never have married my girlfriend, which means I would never have divorced her, either.
I am not unhappy, but I still wonder what my life would have become had I stayed in Paris. I will tell my children this story, hopefully it will encourage them to go out on that limb and do the things that inspire them. Maybe someone who reads this will be inspired...
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