Sometimes, trouble is harder to get out of than it is to get into, and sometimes, getting out of it can be a little more painful than staying out of it would have been.
Of course, I have a story about this.
It started, as these things often do, with an innocuous question from my son, who’d just come back from a class trip to France.
“Pop, is it possible for the memory of something to be better than the event itself?”
That kind of question had me listening with all ears, and brain set fully on “record”.
“Um… Yeah, why?”
“Well, when we were in Paris, – well – did you know that they sell beer in vending machines in France?”
“No, I didn’t…”
Unspoken was the fact that not only had he noticed that they sell beer in vending machines, but also noted the sounds that coins make going in, and the sounds that cans make coming out, and how cold they feel once they get into your hand..
Sometimes it’s better to just let the story tell itself, so I waited. He’d gotten a tattoo before he’d gone, a fairly sizable one. He figured he was 18 and could do that with or without my permission, so he did. He’d told the fellow who did the tattoo that he’d bring some French Cigarettes back for him, so he found some Gitaines, or Gauloises, I forget which. These are cigarettes that would make the Marlboro man look like an absolute wuss, just before he started hacking up rugged pieces of lung.
Part of the trip to France involved a stop in Paris, and the free time they had involved them walking… Everywhere. Late one evening, after one of these long days of walking, he and his roommate were standing on a balcony of their hotel room, relaxing, leaning on the railing, looking out over Paris.
In springtime.
I’ll pause here, while the image gets burned into your mind…
Understand, it’s the wrong image, but still…
So they’re standing there on the balcony, when that image tried to assert herself. I mean, there they are, overlooking one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world, and the image that kept calling to them had a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and was so-o-o-o cool.
The pieces were all there, all they had to do was answer the call of that oh-so-cool image.
That’s when one of them decided he wanted to try the French beer.
Just a note: two words that have never, ever gone together in the same sentence: French and Beer.
French and Wine: Totally different story.
German and Beer: Definitely a different story.
French and beer? Not a chance.
But, they were in Paris, and chances like this don’t come up very often, so they tried the French beer.
“Have you ever had French beer? It tastes like cat piss!”
This was not a comparison I felt qualified to make, nor am I sure he was, but we’ll let that one go.
After gagging and spewing a bit on the cat – er beer, they decided to try the cigarettes.
“Pop, what do they put INTO those things? I mean, it was like sucking on asphalt.
It was GROSS! “How do people smoke those things?”
Sometimes a single whiff of asphalt is more effective than the most strident parent’s words. I smiled.
“And we had to – just HAD to get that taste out of our mouths and the only thing we had was that French beer….”
Ahh…
Paris…
Springtime…
A balcony… a drink, a friend, and smoke, drifting lazily from the end of a cigarette…
That’s the memory.
The reality is a little different.
© Tom Roush 2009
3 comments
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October 30, 2011 at 8:52 am
Bob Lammers
Tom, I just discovered your blog today when a friend e-mailed it to me. As a not so very good writer I like your style very much. I have written some columns over the years for my local weekly newspaper, The Community Post in MInster (just a few miles from Sidney) Ohio. I loved you story on Harry Frilling. I never met the man but I sure wish I had after reading this story. Keep on keeping on.
Bob
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August 22, 2012 at 8:48 pm
Christine Friesenhahn
Ahhhhhh. That’s awesome! Sooooo very much like I imagined my French teacher, on one hand, makes me wonder on the other hand what she was really like!
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August 23, 2012 at 7:15 am
tomroush
I talked to his French teacher about this – and (long after he had his report card and graduated) shared the story with her. She loved it – and then told me that she and some of the chaperones had learned over the years that there were times when they just wanted to make sure the kids were in their rooms at night… They just… didn’t… want to know… what happened once they got there, as long as they were in there and safe. (of course, high schoolers can be most creative when needed.)
Come to think of it – it makes me wonder if somewhere, there’s another story waiting to be told, of a certain balcony being occupied by a certain French teacher, enjoying a brandy…
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