the landing.

I was not myself when our plane touched down in Charles de Gaulle. In fact, I don't know who I was. I was a girl who had once been very alive, but who had closed herself off somewhere along the way. I was a girl who had been in boarding school and needed any way to escape. And that's why I was about to spend nine months in Rennes, France, with sixty other junior and senior boarding school students. I didn't know what to expect, and I'd taken a lot of anxiety medication on the plane, and now I was here and I was numb and there was no going back. 

the yellow house.

les cochons sauvages.

It was one of those dinners typical of the first few weeks (I’m flattering myself- make that months), where the family would try to restrict themselves for my benefit to a simple conversation concerning the weather or current events, and my attempted participation in it would drive things down a bizarre path to where we were soon discussing insulin levels, walnuts, or rabid squirrel attacks.

The problem was that neither party understood the other’s half of the conversation; thinking we were still on weather, I’d be trying to remember the word for hurricane while the family pressed me to tell them more about my experiences in the armed service. Then I’d ask what I believed was a question about tornados and we’d be off on a conversation about ceiling fans.

Tonight we were discussing my future foray into the wilderness of Bretagne with the school group; there was to be an orientation trip that weekend which involved a hike along the seashore and through the forest, and my family welcomed the trip as a seemingly facile discussion topic to last us through the meal.

They were just beginning to explore out loud the possibilities of wildlife I might encounter along my trip, when I was distracted by the plate that was plunked before me. Knowing that I didn’t eat meat, the mother had attempted to compromise by preparing me fish. But this was the fish, the whole fish, nothing but the fish so help me God, and it was staring up at me with one glassy eye as if daring me to eat it.

I didn't know whether I was allowed to remove the scales, and how I would even go about doing it in the first place. The family offered no help; they were happily involved in their (headless and hideless) steaks. I decided to work on my portion of mashed potatoes to bide some time.

The family was saying something about animals, a fact I garnered only because the word is the same in both languages. They seemed to want me to respond, so I obliged them.

“Quelles sortes d’animaux?” I inquired, enjoying a surge of pride over my contribution to the conversation before turning my attention back to my skeletal friend. I believed I had found a way in by the tail, and I soon discovered that by peeling the scales up one by one, you could gain access to the fleshy part underneath. If this was the family’s way of converting me away from pseudo- vegetarianism, it was working.

So entranced was I with my fish, I almost dropped my fork a few seconds later as the host sister abruptly emitted a phlegmy, snorting sound similar to what my mother makes if startled from a deep slumber. I looked over to see the sister and father dangling their fingers from their mouths in a rather obscene way.

What exactly was going on here? I wondered. It was clearly either an evening ritual or some sort of game, and either way I was relieved to be distracted from my meal, so without hesitation I proceeded to, rather clumsily, make the sign back at them.

They immediately broke into smiles, nodding enthusiastically. “Oui! Oui!”

Success! I was in. I was now officially part of Whatever it Was We Were Doing. I was about to go back to my plate when I realized that they were still waiting for something, so I did the finger thing again, just to be safe.

The host sister nodded encouragingly before re-iterating the phlegmy sound like some primal cross-table mating call. Now the game was getting complicated, I thought.

I set down my fork and was preparing to hock up some saliva for a decent response, when a flicker of sanity crossed my mind. Hadn’t we been talking about forest animals earlier? Might this be some sort of charade aimed at educating me?

I racked my mind for animals who were known for making a comparably atrocious sound, but all I could come up with was my mother, so I turned instead to the dangly finger gestures, which perhaps were not obscene at all, rather- of course! What an inspired little rendition of tusks! A walrus!

Oh, get a hold of yourself, you aren’t going to see a horde of walruses running rampant through the woods. No, it would have to be the only other possibility, although this one seemed just as improbable. But, just to be sure…

“Les cochons?!” I squealed.

It couldn’t be, could it? Mais..

“Oui!” La famille erupted in celebration, final jubilant tusks and snorting impressions all around. Great. It had taken me half an hour, but I was now duly warned that there was a good chance my first weekend in France would be spent getting mauled by wild boars. I couldn’t wait to go on this trip.

orientation.

chastity and bonne.

I had no idea what I was in for when I took a seat on the bus next to Chastity Andrews. I had seen her at the airport with a mother who looked like she had just stepped out of an Anne Taylor catalogue, and Chastity herself could be a poster child for Ralph Lauren or J. Crew.

My experiences at boarding school had conditioned me to stay far away from polo-shirt enthusiasts, but Chastity seemed different. I sensed that under the starched collar and Tiffany's jewelry and flat-ironed hair was a fellow odd-duck.

My prediction, as it were, turned out to be a little too accurate.

We started with the basic introductions and family backgrounds, although I soon found it hard to get a word in edgewise as she picked up steam, veering away from depictions of idyllic Westchester, New York, to broach new and completely random topics having to do with her past and present debauchery.

She seemed determined to bring home the irony of the fact that she had for ten years been a Catholic schoolgirl (at a school named, suitably, School of the Holy Child), in light of her sexual promiscuity, drunken escapades, and honorary membership in an inner-city gang. Soon she was telling me a story about how during the previous summer she had, while inebriated, tipped over a golf cart and broke her neck.

“Really? Can you break your neck and not die?” I mused aloud.

“Well, it was only part of my neck I guess. Mostly my back."

“Ah.” I said. She was already thinking up

something new to entertain me.

“And then I sprained my ankle a month ago while I was hooking up with this guy, because I fell down the stairs, and he left, and I was trying to go back up the stairs to find him but I couldn't figure out why my ankle wouldn't move right."

She laughed heartily, lost in reverie.

I pondered a minute.

“You seem to be moving around pretty normally now, considering all your injuries."

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I guess so. But there was this other time....”

And so it went.

We spent all day meandering around the wind swept beaches of St. Malo, weaving up barracks and into towers, then back into the cobblestone streets where ice-cream and souvenir stands waited.

We exchanged stories about our host families, and, in a tentative, indirect way, began to find words to formulate the experiences of those first few days, the feelings that we didn't yet understand. Chastity was my first, and best friend while I was in France. And she is still one of my very best friends today.

On that day I met another person who would become not just a best friend, but a central figure in the next four years of my life. It was Bianca, who is also Bonne.

We found each other when she ambled over to the group who I was attempting to entertain with my re-telling of the wild boars story. I was being overly animated, demonstrating tusks and all, in an attempt to impress and make some dinner partners. Everyone laughed politely, except for Bonne, who recognized the priceless humor of the situation and gave it the guffaw it deserved.

She thought I was hilarious, I thought she had cool earrings; it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. She and Chastity and I laughed our way through dinner, and screeched when we all mistook a stray cat for a wild boar. It was clear that I had found my niche.

bonne pour la sante

The fun continues the next morning when we set off on a hike along the sea-side. Chastity, Bonne and I are at the front, making friends left and right due to our innate coolness, and our plan to forage blackberries off the passing branches as we walk. Today we are hunter-gatherers, we have decided, and for some reason it makes us very popular with our new classmates.

Mel, a short, sex-obsessed Bostonian, also wants to be a hunter gatherer. So does Graham, who has frazzled hair and is wearing an Elmo t-shirt. And then there’s Rose and Dee-Dee, two classmates from Brooks Academy. Every hunting gathering mission needs a leader, so naturally I appoint myself it.

Munching contentedly on blackberries, our troupe marches merrily “Onward!” I shout, punching a fist into the air and charging ahead. As we round a bend, the path tips sharply downward towards where the sun is glistening off aquamarine water. Caught up by the perfect moment, I beckon eagerly to my compatriots before skipping off, combating their cries of, “Omigod, how old are you? Five?” With the occasional resonating, “Hoorayyyy!!!”

Frolicking is infectious, however, and pretty soon there is a parade of teenagers bounding across the rocks. We stop to forage some tasty prunes (“Oh! Les vaches!” Exclaims Pascale, our French professor and tour guide, rubbing his hands before grabbing a handful) and it is not long before we find ourselves questioning the edibility of seaweed. Pascale assures us that it is indeed bonne pour la sante (good for the health) and we decide that, since this is a hunting gathering mission, we must concur.

“C’mon, Anne, be the penguin,” demands Mel, pushing me forward. We have just been discussing how penguins push each other off of icebergs to test for sharks.

I hesitate for a moment, then shrug.

“Ok,” I say, wondering what effect it would have on my popularity if I were to dunk my head in the water and come up with a mouthful of seaweed, like a moose.

I decide to nibble daintily on the leaf instead, and other brave souls follow suit. Salty, but not all bad.

We continue on through cornfields and forest, past farmland and empty fields, past cows and bulls and horses. We don't see any wild boars. Finally, we climb a long and steeply ascending hill to where the buses are awaiting.

The hunter-gatherers crash in the back, trading stories of past Europe experiences and taking in the passing countryside.

"I could get used to this," I think.

bread and ashes.

Our school building was a three story Victorian era townhouse complete with large, ivied windows, winding staircases, and a white-pebbled courtyard behind which was another smaller building, le jardin. Our director, Don Henley, lived on the top floor with his wife, two boys, and their yellow lab puppy, Daisy, who would come barreling down the stairs and into classrooms, wreaking havoc by drooling on people and taking the occasional leak on someone's bag. 

Other than that, there was not much traffic along the top flight of 

stairs, so they were adopted as another nook for doing homework or chatting. Perching here had its risks, however; at times you would be pelted by paper airplanes or toy parachutes only to look up and catch the mischievous giggles and smiles of the Henley boys before they scampered away.

On the second floor lay the girls bathroom (which left the boys sprinting to the basement between classes), the computer room, and two classrooms, La Grande Salle et La Petite. La Petite Salle was made even more petite thanks to the gigantic table that monopolized it; at the beginning of each class there would be a mad rush over, under, and around, knowing that the last two people in would be literally under the nose of the teacher with their unfinished homework in plain view. Not only that, but while I hate to say it, the rumors about the French and body odor, while not always applicable, certainly held true for a few of our teachers. Pascale's breath alone was motivation to arrive 10 minutes early for class. 

La Grande Salle was the polar opposite of the Petite. Here, sun flooded the double windows, through which flowers and vines peered in and beyond which lay a sweeping view of the chimneys and rooftops of Rennes. In the fall and spring we let the warm breezes blow in and listened to the crunch of cobblestones, the chime of churchbells, and the chatter of passing students ("I don't want to go to English!" was once overheard, much to our Mrs. Reed's bemusement). 

In the winter, we shut the windows and let the wind and rain pound against them as we listened to personal essays read aloud and pored over the works of the great expatriates. The year began as a typical junior English class, studying Hamlet as I had done before. I never imagined that it would be here where I would learn the most, not about style or grammar or even poetry and literature, but about what it meant to be an expatriate, about the ways our lives were changing, and how to identify and express the vast range of emotions we were experiencing every day. I began to see my own thoughts and feelings reflected in print by everyone from Faulkner to Hemingway to my classmates, and I began to sense the connection that we, as strangers, and seekers, implicitly shared. 

A bar by the name of La Duchesse Anne was right next-door, with a back entrance in the alleyway that led to our school. Bernie, the proprietor of "the Duche", was an extremely large, brusque Frenchman with a rumbling voice and curling mustache. He wore the same sweat-stained white t-shirt every day, stretched over his protruding belly, and he huffed and puffed between sentences as if even the effort to talk was an exertion. 

An establishment such as the Duche would never have stood a chance in the United States, but would have been shut down for health and safety reasons in a heartbeat. It had no system of ventilation and attracted chain smokers like a magnet, a combination that led to a foul, stale odor that by December seemed to have taken on a life of its own. It clung to those who entered even momentarily, reaching beyond the walls and forcing us to hold our breath in passing. Bernie's sandwiches, ordered every Wednesday for our lunchtime math class, tasted like bread and ashes. 

Still, in September the Duche’s doors were open, and it therefore sufficed as an after-school hang-out for Mel, Chastity and I, who discovered how rebellious and cool we felt when sitting outside at the plastic tables to have a beer and cigarette. We dodged in for a drink between classes, we tried the croque monsieur and creme brulee for lunch, and we spent every afternoon of that first week watching American music videos on TV and eating frites, too scared to head out into the world of downtown Rennes and too self conscious to spend the extra time with our French families. When we (or at least, I) were invited to our classmate Preston's party that Saturday night, we naturally made the Duche our meeting place.

rouge et noir.

On Friday the atmosphere in school is charged with excitement for our first night out in a country where alcohol is completely legal. Chastity and Mel and I promise each other to get dinners with the family out of the way as quickly as possible, so that we can get an early start to the festivities. 

Unfortunately, I am the first to arrive for our Duche rendezvous. The bar is empty aside from Bernie and two young men, who turn their attention from the blaring TV when I walk in. "You, again??" Bernie barks.

"Are my friends here?" I ask, aware of the men's smirks over my accent.

Bernie takes an unnecessary look around the whole establishment before answering, "Bah, non." The two men snicker. I shoot them a withering look, before mustering up every French skill I possess to produce a witty comeback, "Ah. D'accord. Eh..... D'accord. Au revoir!"

I fumble for the doorknob and make what is supposed to be a haughty exit as they all chortle into their drinks. After what seems to be an eternity of waiting alone (I catch the men peering out the windows every so often: they must be in need of entertainment), I finally see Chastity making her way up the street. She's in a zip-up Polo sweatshirt and miniskirt, and mid-story before she's even within earshot.

"Ok, so there's this nun at my house, right, and, like, I have no idea why she's there, I mean, nuns don't normally just come over to say hi or have tea or whatever, so anyway, she gives me this look as I'm going out, right, like I half-expected her to cross herself, she was so scandalized. But it's like, she's a nun. What's she gonna do? Whew!" She takes a breath, "Where's Mel? Have you been waiting here alone all this time?"

"Yeah, and these two guys are making fun of me," I gesture towards the window, where they are now tapping on the glass and waving.

Chastity squints. "Are they cute?"

I roll my eyes and follow her inside, pointing triumphantly and announcing to Bernie, "Look, I've found one!"

He grunts. The men giggle. We take a seat in the corner booth and pretty soon Mel is making her entrance. She is breathless and disheveled as usual, her loose t-shirt being pulled off her shoulders by the strap of her messenger bag, and she has a mischievous grin on her face, like no matter what happens tonight she's totally up for it.

"Ladiesss!" She slides into our booth. "What's up, what's up? Ready to get our drink on?"

Chastity's face lights up. "Omigod, I already have been. My host mom, she makes these things they're called Kirs, they're like, amazing. They have like champagne in them and some kind of fruity flavoring- anyway, she made me have like two before I left...."

"I take it this was pre-nun," I interrupt.

"Oh, well, yeah, but..."

"Wait, hold up, what nun?"

I leave Chastity to explain and excuse myself to the bathroom to reapply eye-liner. When I return, there are three pints of beer on the table, which we clink together enthusiastically.

"Cheers!" Mel cries before tipping hers back. Our friends at the next table just can't get enough- luckily they have pints of their own so that they can mimic our actions. Pretty soon, however, their attention is distracted by a more important spectacle than three Americans on their first Friday night in France. The football game is on.

The atmosphere in Bernie's changes dramatically as the opposing team begins to gain dominance over Rennes.

"Mais, alors!!!" The men cry at alternating intervals. "Ah, c'est chiant, ca!"

Even the typically stoic Bernie shows an uncharacteristic display of emotion when, after a near-goal by the Marseilles, his mustache twitches slightly.

We are on our third pint of beer when, in the final quarter, Rennes begins to pick up speed. First, a deftly placed goal by a forward in black and red. Then, their midfielder slips one by. The game is tied two to two and the atmosphere is electric. The men are on the edge of their seats, clutching their mugs and clenching their teeth. As our team passes the ball expertly up the field, both the televised crowd and our friends begin to chant, slowly, then gathering in speed and intensity, "Rouuuuge et noir...... Rouuuge et noir....... "

Chastity, Mel and I exchange grins and chime in, "Rouge et Noir, Rouge et Noir,"

The men are on their feet now, "Rouge et Noir, Rouge et Noir,"

We all pound on the tables, "Rouge et Noir! Rouge et Noir!"

Rennes is dribbling toward the net as the clock winds down. "ROUGE ET NOIR! ROUGE ET NOIR!! ALLEEEEZZZZZZZ..................." 

The hum reaches a climax as the star forward scores and the crowd explodes, "AYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!" 

A burst of black and red confetti rains down upon the spectators and players, who are leaping and dancing into a bear hug as the other team slinks back to the benches. Our new friends are ecstatic, frolicking around the bar as Bernie pumps out another round of beer for us all. That’s the first moment. The kick-off into a whole new ball-game. And with three beers under our belt, we decide it is time to head to Preston's.

scaling the wall.

It’s 2 AM on my first Saturday night in France, and my keys don't work in the door, so now I’m pacing the tiles outside my house, plotting ways to break in. I have to act fast; the dog heard my key jiggling in the lock and is threatening to awake the family with its frantic barking. I stalk back and forth, drunk, desperate, exhausted. I'm about ready to go to sleep on the sidewalk when I notice that my bedroom window is slightly ajar. The house is split-level; my bedroom is neither first-floor nor second floor but somewhere in between. Whatever it is, I have just enough alcohol in my system that I believe I can make it.

I charge through the garden toward the bush positioned closest to my window, and, using its surprisingly durable branches as a spring, vault upwards to grab the bottom of the fence protecting my balcony. It's my first time ever scaling a wall, and I think I do pretty well considering my attire. The high heels prevent me from getting a solid foothold, and the “stretch” jeans are certainly not as flexible as the Gap would purport them to be, but somehow or other I manage to make it to the window, swing a leg over the ledge and roll gracelessly in. A loud thud, and the house is again silent.

I note that the amazing watch dog has long since gone back to sleep.

making calls.

Unfortunately, due to the six hour time difference, and the extended route that the bus took on week-end nights, the times that I generally chose to make calls to the folks back home were the times I was most intoxicated. 

Dum, de, dum, dum. I kick my legs up on the seat in front of me as the phone rings in the house of my best friend back home.

"Hello?" But wait! That's not Jen! It could only be....

"Mrs. Rogers?!" I squeal. What fun! "How ARE you?!"

There is a slight cough, and then the indulgent, "I'm just fine, Annie. How are you?"

"EXCELLENT!" I gush, then realize, too late, that I need to tone it down a notch.

"I see. It must be pretty late over in France right now."

"Oh, ummm..... it's just about 10. Thirty or so." Give or take a couple of hours, but I'm assuming she won't know the difference. People from my home town aren't exactly world travelers.

"Well, I hope you're being careful. Are you with anybody?"

Horrified, I realize I need to end this conversation like now.

"No, but I'm on the bus home. Really, I'm ok. I was just calling to say hello to Jen, tell her hello and everyone hello and I'll talk to you later, byyyye!"

I punch the end button fiercely and breathe a deep sigh of relief. I'll have to be more careful from now on.

the penis game.

“Hey, who finished my drink?” I frown, scanning the couch for possible suspects until my gaze wobbles onto Mel. “Did you?”

“Um, I think you did, Anne.”

“Impossible!” I scoff, then screw up my forehead in concentration. I ponder for a few seconds, then concede.

“Well! That went fast!” Like the three tequilas and accompanying beers that preceded it.

Rasheed was a boy who lived in my town, and we both liked bars and drinking and taking the latest possible bus home, so that worked out just fine. It was our first night escorting each other back to Betton, and while we were walking I decided to ask him why he and his friend Donovan had been laughing so hard in math class that afternoon.

“Oh, it’s because we were playing the penis game.”

“PENIS!” I shout. I know that game.

“No, no….” Rasheed shushes me, steering me away from some bemused passerby. “It’s when you take movie titles and replace one of the words with penis.”

“Ohhh, like 10 Things I Hate about Penis?” I giggle.

“Exactly. Or She’s All Penis.”

“American Penis!” I’m intrigued.

“Finding Penis.”

“The Lion Penis.”

“The Little Penis.”

“The Mighty Penis.”

“FREE PENIS!!!!!” I punch my fist into the air. We’re holding onto each other laughing uncontrollably as we weave down the cobbled street.

“Hold on, I want to see if this place is open.” He darts inside the sandwich shop and I wait outside, sliding slightly down the wall until my feet are sticking out at a right angle into the street. Rasheed returns just in time to save me from being hit on by random men and a bus simultaneously.

“Ok, this is our bus. Up we go.” He helps propels me through the doors, and, in a burst of energy, I dive onto a seat, roll off, grab the bar, and pull myself up again. Rasheed is too engrossed in his sandwich to notice.

“I want some,” I say. It's infuriating, how content he looks.

“Missed your chance.” He shrugs and takes another big bite.

“Rasheed!” I stamp my foot and almost fall off the seat again. The French are all silently observingly our exchange. I surrender the battle and lean back, my head sinking into the cushion. Ahhhh......... bliss.

Next thing I know Rasheed is telling me it's my stop and wondering if I'm going to make it all the way home.

“I’m FINE.” I reel off the bus and begin to teeter down the street, concentrating hard on staying parallel to the wall that keeps moving closer to my right side. I’m painfully aware that the bus has not yet moved, and I have the sneaking suspicion that even the driver wants to witness this spectacle. I can just picture Rasheed laughing with the French people over his drunk American friend... oops, that was the wall. Only slightly bruised, I pull some branches out of my hair and continue doggedly on.

buying dinner in cancale.

The lady beckons us through a door that leads into a cave of boiling tubs. Reaching into one, she fishes out a fat, wriggling crab and plunks him into a plastic bag. I feel slightly squeamish, and keep my distance as I follow my family to the cash register. While wringing up the purchase, my host mother and the vendeuse engage in lively conversation, which comes to an abrupt halt when they realize the purchase is gone.

“Attend!” Shouts the vendeuse. The bag is scuttling away. After a lively chase around the shop, during which I have a close encounter with the crustacean and have to step outside, the bag is secured and double knotted this time. I’m trying to act as nonchalant as possible, but my host sister knows only too well my fondness for reptiles, and on the walk back the bag keeps finding its way over to me. Her mother is enjoying the entertainment, putting an end to it only after my yelp and leap to the side almost knock over a passing baby carriage.

Off we go, host sister and mom in the front, me and crab in the back. It turns into quite a bonding experience. Every time the car rounds a sharp corner, and we hear the cooler tip over in back, everyone shouts, “Le crab!!” They keep catching me peering cautiously over my shoulder for signs of movement, and giggling as I protest, “Il fait du bruit! Il fait du bruit!!!” It’s true, the bag keeps rattling and I feel like I’m in some kind of grade B horror movie. Crab 2: La Vengeance!

le crab!

lunchtime wine.

Bonne and Chastity became my regular lunch buddies, and one day we continued past the throngs outside our usual cafeteria, and down the hill into a neighborhood we had not discovered yet. The streets were lined with plush foliage and free of litter, and in each doorway was a boulangerie, patisserie, or cafe. A winding river ran in its midst. 

We leaned against the rail of a footbridge to take in the beauty of the moment; the sparkling water of the canal, the red and orange leaves drifting gracefully downward to land on the placid surface, the hush that was so rare at noontime in France. Across the way, a mill spun water outwards in a steady stream, and as we approached it we found a small cafe overlooking the river. Within a second of entering, a kindly face had appeared and was ushering us to a cozy corner table.

"Et voila, Mesdemoiselles. Qu'est ce que vous allez prendre aujourd'hui?" We looked up to consult a chalkboard where two choices were scrawled. Facile enough; Bonne and Chastity chose fish while I went with chicken, and we all selected the soupe a l'oignon. Finally, despite the fact that we had a test in language directly preceding this, we opted for a bottle of wine. What the hell; it was Friday and we deserved a little celebration.

We started off with idle chit-chat as we waited for the food to be prepared in the back room, where we could hear the chefs, presumably all one family, calling back and forth to one another. We warmed up with gossip as we slurped at the delicious soup, for which we thanked the woman as she replaced it with our plats principals, and were met with a pleased and flattered, "Je vous en prie". 

The chicken was delicious, the wine was even more so, and we had to order another bottle to go with our life stories. Dramatic pauses were taken in order for one to pour the others' wine, to savor a long sip, to ponder the depths of the glass as if it held the answer of some age old and ever-perplexing question. Bonne was in the midst of spilling all the gory details about Neal, her first love, when someone happened to noticed the time.

"Um, guys?" Chastity interrupted. "If that clock on the wall is right, we have, like, ten minutes to get back to class." I felt like I had just been startled out of a peaceful dream. Class? But we had been having so much fun! Bonne, always the efficient one, went straight to business.

"We'll have to finish the wine while she gets the check, skip the coffee, and sprint." Our eyes met over the wine as the same thought crossed all of our minds: we still had a good portion to go. But we were only in France once, and we needed to get the most out of our limited money, so before you could say "Allons-y" another round had been poured and guzzled and we were ready to hit the road. Thanking the lovely madame for all of her kindness, we tripped out the door into the fresh autumn air and, after a brief stretch and a prayer, took off. 

We raced along the riverbanks and darted between traffic across the street. People stared out of the windows of the small boulangeries and corner cafes as we charged past, our hair flying and jackets flailing. Startled passerby uttered a bemused, "Oh la la!", mothers yanked their children out of harm's way.

Our sprint had slowed to a canter as we reached the end of the block, and while huffing and puffing our way up the hill, we got a terrifically well timed, "Hello! I love you!" from a group of passing French teenagers. 

We were limping and wheezing by the time we reached the top, and the slight flush from the wine had evolved into a full out beet red. I for one was sweating profusely, and stopped to take off my coat while Bonne removed her heels. This was the final stretch: it was time to go all out. 

We came barreling down the basement stairs to arrive, panting, dripping sweat, and still quite tipsy, at Madame Emmanuelli's language class exactly fifteen minutes after it had started. All eyes were upon us, with the exception of Preston, who continued to work intently on his test. Madame Emmanuelli advanced upon us, hands on hips.

"Oh, my little cabbages, " she declared, looking us up and down. "What am I going to do with you three?" 

We stiffened. Would she call down Mr. Austin? Were we going to get expelled? Would the rest of our school careers be jeopardized all for the sake of a little lunchtime fun? She turned, shaking her head, and picked up the last three tests of the pile. When she looked up she was smiling.

"Oh, les petites chou-chous," she said again as she feigned a playful whack with the stack of papers. "Oh, la la la la!”

cheap vodka night.

Before going out one Friday night, Chastity and I stop at the Marche to pick up some provisions. We're short on cash, which is why we're picking up our own liquor in the first place, and why we choose the cheapest brand of vodka in the store. I'm reaching for Smirnoff's when Chastity intervenes, informing me in her most convincing tone that Ermenstaffgensomething or other really isn't that bad, she tried it, she knows. Right. The more adamant Chastity is about something, the less sure she is about it -- but this was in the beginning of the year when I didn't know her by heart. I was naive and concurred, leading to an evening that would go down in history as "Cheap Vodka Night".

We met our new friend Rose for dinner at our new favorite trattoria, a little hole in the wall overlooking St. Anne. The trattorias were our favorite place to go; hot and smoky with robust red wine and steaming breadbaskets, thin crust pizza heaped with strips of jambon and fromage de chevre. We started off every meal with Kirs- white wine flavored with various liquers ranging from cassis to framboise to the loaded kir royale. We broke bread and gossiped about the SYA goings-on, speaking quietly by American standards but nonetheless attracting stares and incredulous murmurs from the couples surrounding us.

By the end of the meal we were always full, flushed, and slightly tipsy. Tonight was no exception. We tripped out into the cold and, instead of hanging out in St. Anne, headed downtown. Near Place de la Republique we poured half a bottle of Sunny D into the fountain, replaced it with vodka, and trundled on to Place de la Parliament to huddle merrily on the steps, warmed by laughter and our good friend the screwdriver.

I choose the moment that Chastity takes a mouthful of vodka to make a witty comment which in retrospect, probably wasn't that funny, but within seconds she is choking and spluttering all over the place.

"Oh GOD," She wheezes, holding out the bottle for either Rose or I to take, which is difficult seeing as we are doubled over with laughter.

"You guys," She coughs and clutches at her stomach, "You guys, it's not funny!"

She staggers down the steps and lowers herself onto a bench, pausing dramatically before letting out a tortured moan, "I just inhaled vodka!"

Rose's unsympathetic cackle echoes across Place de la Parliamente.

Chastity continues to panic, stammering incomprehensible phrases concerning "damage" and "lungs", until somehow we get the idea of convincing her that, no really, the vodka is actually cleansing her lungs. She perks up.

"You think so?"

"Oh definitely," Rose and I concur.

"In fact," I add, "Any tobacco buildup?" I wave my hand dramatically. "Washing it right out! Seriously, vodka inhaling could be the new cure for lung cancer!"

Chastity motions for the bottle. Rose and I exchange grins. Soon we're good and drunk and off to the next bar.

We come barreling out of the metro station at Rue St. Anne, and run directly into Donovan, Rasheed, and Asher. We're absolutely ecstatic to see them, but they groan when they see our condition.

With the world already whirling in front of me, I prance ahead of the group and lead them to a bar where I just recently lost a cell phone (in the first of many awkward moments with my host mother, she drove me to the bar the next day so that I could retrieve it). The bar is a bad choice; despite my efforts at reconciliation, it and I just do not have good karma. Within ten minutes I've fallen down the stairs, and thrown up in what I believe is a discreet way under the table.

Later, we head back to Place de la Parliament, this time with a horde of French people who Donovan has befriended. Donovan has a knack for these sort of things. The French people seem to be under the impression that I am wasted, so, determined to prove them wrong, I embark on a series of tasks at their command; touching my knee to my nose, spinning around. I fail miserably at both, ripping my too-tight jeans in half before toppling over onto the ground. The French people are in hysterics.

Hoping to be further entertained, they offer to escort me to the Quick. For those of us who catch our 12:30am buses in an alley behind Republique, the Quick (a cheaper version of McDonalds, or MacDo, as the French would say) is a relatively safe waiting place.

I don't actually remember getting on the bus, nor most of the ride home, except for one episode which is so unforgettable that it has, much to my chagrin, become one of the classic, infamous stories of our year abroad.

The bus had just turned onto a long stretch of highway, what Rasheed and I often referred to as "the tunnel of darkness." Thank God Rasheed is not with me tonight, I think, as, with no stop in sight, I begin to feel slightly, then overwhelmingly nauseous.

“Oh god, oh god,” I whisper, looking in vain for an emergency cord, an open window, or even a secluded corner. It is no use; the bus is packed. I’m doomed. Then, like a lightbulb going on in my head, it occurs to me. So simple, yet so brilliant.

My purse.

Slowly, surreptitiously, I part the sides of my black Nine West bag, and not a moment too soon. As I recover, I look around and convince myself that no one else has noticed a thing. “Bra-vo,” I mentally pat myself on the back, relaxing slightly for the rest of the journey. “Well done.”

But the feeling is short lived.

I wake up the next morning and immediately wish I hadn't. There is a large brick in my forehead, and it starts violently throbbing as I sit up. My stomach feels as if it is gargling acid.

I can't remember exactly what happened last night, and I have a feeling that I don't want to know. With a slight feeling of doom, I switch on the light and survey the damage. A moment passes as the stinging light hits my eyes and brings the throbbing to a climax, then…

I gasp. What has happened to my room? My armoire drawers are practically dislodged, with their contents strewn about the room, and my jeans from last night are lying in two pieces on the floor. The vest and shirt I was wearing are shoved in a pile in the corner and reek of vomit.

Holding them gingerly, I tip-toe to the bathroom and begin to scrub. I finally give up and sneak them into the laundry room, making sure to shove them under layers of other clothes.

I shut myself into the closet size bathroom to pee, and there, lowering myself onto the toilet seat, I am met with a searing pain in my rear end.

"What the...." I shuffle hurriedly back into the bathroom to consult the full-size mirror, and don't know whether to laugh or cry hysterically when I see the monstrosity of a bruise that is overtaking my left cheek. I've never seen anything like it; it is such a deep purple that parts of it appear black. I'm pretty sure that could be a dangerous thing; something about blood vessels having exploded, but I'm not about to consult a doctor. I stare at myself in the mirror, not wanting to believe the ludicrosy of this day so far and praying that I won't suddenly discover anything else.

Then I remember. My purse.

down with the duche.

Ever body odor conscious, I was the first to wage war on the Duche. I had been dependent on a morning and afternoon coffee to get me through the day, and was not one to argue with the full basket of fruity tootsie rolls which were free for the taking, but by November I noticed a strange and rather rancid smell coming from my fleece. Horrified, I identified it as the stench of stale cigarettes and Bernie B.O., and rushed home in a panic to wash it out. 

The very next morning I began my anti-Duche campaign, throwing myself into it with almost religious fervor. I was on a mission to exorcise the school of the foul odor, and anyone who dared to consort with the enemy faced my wrath.

As a main frequenter of the computer room, I was determined to keep it purified. I always grabbed the computer closest to the door so that I could do a subtle sniff check of every person entering. If they failed, I was immediately out of my chair and blocking their entrance.

"You've been at the DUCHE, haven't you?!?!"

"I.... I......" Cowering, pitiful. I take a step forward.

"WELL???" At this point they either flee or muster up courage.

"I just needed some coffee, Anne! I was desperate! You of all people should know how that is!"

"Yes, and that's why I now go to the Sablier!! Just around the corner, free chocolate! No rancid odor!"

"But..... but..... I need to check my e-mail! Please. I.... I won't go there ever again, I promise!" All eyes are on me, awaiting the verdict.

"Fine," I say before striding across the room, "But we'll need to air this place out while you're in here!" A collective groan goes up as I throw open the windows triumphantly.

"But it's freezing out, Anne!"

 
"Get a jacket, Martha!" Battle won, I settle back into my chair.

I managed to terrify most people into boycotting with me, but sometimes the Duche demons lured even the most unlikely suspects into temptation. Just before class one day, I caught Bonne slipping her purse under her coat on the way out the door with a guilty look.

"WHERE are you going?!" I bellowed, advancing on her menacingly.

"Bonne, please!!! I haven't had any coffee today and I'm dying!! I'm never going to make it through Math!!" She was practically crying, wild-eyed and pleading. But I showed no mercy.

"You have to think about the consequences of your actions, Bonne. This is larger than just you or I. That smell's going to attach itself to everyone in the school!!!" For a moment, I thought she was relenting. And then, in a moment of rebellion, she slipped by me and darted out the door, waving her purse triumphantly in the air.

"BONNE!" I shrieked, "That's IT! You've sacrificed our friendship all for the sake of some burned, nasty coffee!!"

There were still the Duche loyalists, and they accused me of betraying Bernie as I had once been one of them. Their comments left me with a twinge of guilt and nostalgia for those early days spent at the Cafe, laughing and posing for pictures with the gigantic Bernie statue outside. But, this was war. There could be no mercy.

for whom the bell tolls.

One day the school went to visit Mt. St. Michel, and I was in a profoundly bad mood the whole time. I was tired and cranky and probably pre-menstrual, and felt fat and claustrophobic and anti-social the whole time we were there. Mt. St. Michel is a claustrophobe's worst nightmare, especially with the throngs of tourists, so despite my best efforts to get away from everyone, there were always at least two Asians and a school group breathing down my neck.

At lunch time, I rejected half of the food my host mother had packed me, throwing it

violently into a trash can as if that action alone would kick-start an era of weight-loss.

I came to regret that decision seven hours later. I was at Chastity's house, where I had been before, but now was my first time being invited for dinner. We were hanging out in her room on the third floor, and writing jokes about the phallic-looking rock they had taken us to after Mt. St. Michel, and I was trying not to think about how much my stomach was growling.

Chastity had said that a bell would ring once dinner was ready, because that's the way you do things in a house with three floors and four daughters and a host daughter to boot. So we sat and waited for the bell, and kept making up puns. These were some of our favorites:

"This is even better than Easter Island."

"Maybe God IS a woman."

"If the other megaliths represent Alexander the Great's soldiers, what's THIS?"

But not even the puns could distract me from my empty stomach.
Suddenly, I shush Chastity in mid-sentence.

"What's...."

"Shut up!!" I hiss, waving my hands frantically. It's coming from downstairs, a faint tinkling. I turn to her wild-eyed. "Is that it?? Is that the bell?"

Chastity is fighting hard to keep from laughing. "No, no, Anne. That's just Cecile playing with one of her toys."

"Auuuugh!" I moan in anguish, falling back on the bed. "This is ridiculous! I've never been so hungry in my entire life!! Don't you have anything to eat in your room?!?!"

She shrugs. "I have tootsie pops. Oh!" Her eyes light up. "And some bacardi from last weekend."

I prop myself up on my elbows and glare at her. "Bacardi is not filling, Chastity. And I have to make a good impression on your host parents."

She ponders. "Hmmm. Ok, well I know what. We can go down to the Supermarche and smuggle food into my room. I need some tampons anyway."

I'm halfway down the stairs before she's even finished talking, eyes gleaming in anticipation of the promised land; the marche

plus!!

We pause in the doorway of the kitchen as Chastity asks whether they need anything from the store. In her blundering French, she's trying to make up a story about how she's run out of contact solution and needs more immediately. The whole process takes over ten minutes and I'm beginning to contemplate gnawing on my arm when she punches me, "Ok, lets go."

"A bien tot, Anne!" from the kitchen. I pop my head in to where the host mom and her friend are seated.

"A bien tot!" From what I can see, no preparations for dinner are even being made. And it's quarter after nine. But no matter, salvation lies ahead in the form of the supermarche!

"Hoorayyyyyy!" I squeal as we slam shut the medieval gate.

"To the Supermarche!!!" Chastity punches her fist into the air. I follow suit, and we are off, sprinting through the rain toward where the neon lights beckon from down the street.

Inside, I head straight for the miniscule health food section, but Chastity makes a face. "Fiber wafers, Anne?" She wrinkles her nose, eyeing the package that I have so eagerly selected. "Come on. Puh-leeze."

My face falls. "But I like fiber wafers!"

She shakes her head. "No. No, you don't. Ok, if you come over here," she gestures to where the candy section is overflowing with brightly colored boxes and wrapped packages, "You'll see some real food." She picks out a packet of Lion bars. "Mmmmm....."

I let out an exasperated sigh; there is not much I can do, since she's the one paying for the food.

"FINE. But I'm getting some apples." I select two, one of which falls on the way to the cash register. "Ohhhh."

Chastity gloats at my misfortune and I have the impulse to kick her. This is NOT turning out to be a good night.

We smuggle the treats upstairs in our jackets, and while Chastity munches contentedly on her Lion bars I devour my apple in three quick bites. The teasing, brief moment of food serves only to make my hunger worse. And while the Lion bars would surely provide a more substantial snack, I am not about to sacrifice my diet. No matter what the cost.

Just when I have resigned myself to starvation and lie back to pray for a quick and painless death, I hear it. The faint, tinkling sound of a bell. This time, its sound is distinct, it's not my imagination, the end is in sight!!

With my last reserve of strength I launch myself off of the floor, shoving a similarly ravenous Chastity out of my way in my desperation to get to the door, and we jostle each other into the hallway, salivating like a pack of Pavlov's dogs. We charge down the stairs and skid to a halt, huffing and puffing, at the table, where the feast is laid out in all its.... its....

Mussels. The one food on the entire planet that I not only don’t like, but am actually allergic to. Typical!!! My inner voice screams. The moules are being served with a side of frites, and so with a forced smile I take a heaping portion of the latter and the smallest amount possible of the prior. I don’t dare admit my predicament to Chastity’s host parents, certainly not on my first visit to their dinner table. Instead, I suck it up. Literally. Beurk.

The irony of it all was that, as the year went on, Chastity and I discovered her family to be the most laid-back people we’d ever met in terms of meal-times and eating. The host mother, once she discovered my predilection for cereal, would always me encourage me to have some- even in lieu of what was being served on the table.

It got to the point where my place setting, instead of a plate and fork like everyone else, was a bowl and spoon. I wasn’t complaining; their cupboard boasted the best selection of cereals west of Paris. They had every kind of chocolate and frosted flake imaginable, along with hazelnut filled squares and corn puffs and muesli..... it was heavenly.

“This,” I would proclaim, happily munching on my latest compilation, fresh bread and brie to my left, Kir Royale to my right, “This is worth crossing the Atlantic Ocean for!”

To which Chastity’s host mother, beaming, would raise her glass in a toast, while Chastity invariably rolled her eyes.

red light special.

Chastity lived in the red light district of Rennes, an idea that I scoffed at until I walked home with her at 3:00 in the morning.

“Keep moving,” She cautioned me, “Or people are going to think we’re prostitutes. Like those two girls across the street.” I looked to see two black girls in jeans and jackets, hardly what I’d imagine as hookers.

“Right,” I snorted. I wasn't falling for another of Chastity's yarns.

“No, I’m serious,” She went on in a low voice, “I see them here every weekend. All of them. That woman we just passed, the one over there between two cars, you’re going to start noticing them now, just look around you.”

And like in a scene out of a thriller, they began materializing out of nowhere.

I felt like I had just been given the sixth sense. There were women everywhere, lingering at the corner, leaning against the buildings, spaced out evenly along the sidewalk. They all looked like they were waiting for something; a friend to meet them, a taxi to come along and pick them up.

They gave us cool looks as we walked by, and I tried to keep my expression neutral. These girls close to my age might not be able to hurt me, but they weren’t working alone. Indeed, as we turned up her street, Chastity cautioned me once again,

“Stick to the middle of the road. This is where the pimps hide out.” I fought my curiosity to look into the doorways and alleys we were passing, scared that eye contact might get me grabbed up, never to be seen again. Only when we had made it safely inside her door and locked the multiple bolts that lined it, did I let out a sigh of relief.

In the kitchen, Chastity's two eldest host sisters, Helene and Clementine, had also just returned from a night out and were feasting on chocolate cereal and stale baguettes while recapping the evening’s events. We gathered some treats for ourselves and joined them, enjoying the hybrid of languages which was possible due to their high-school level English. Once we had covered all the possible gossip, and sufficiently emptied the cupboards, it was time to trundle upstairs for bed.

Chastity and I linger behind to rinse off some of the dishes before heading up the three flights of stairs. The house is dark, and ominously silent. We tip-toe past the parents' bedroom and begin up the final flight, when suddenly I feel a wave of trepidation wash over me. There, in the shadows, a huge object is leaning against the banister.

"Here's an extra mattress for you, Anne!" Comes Clementine's loud whisper. "Do you want it now?"

Uh oh.

"Look out!!" I push Chastity into the darkness ahead as the mattress begins to move, upwards and over the railing. Shaking in silent laughter, she's doing a horrible job of escaping the situation.

"Faster!!!" I hiss, prodding her in the back as the mattress creeps persistently forwards to position itself over our heads. From behind the banister, muffled Clementine giggles. I attempt one last futile jab at Chastity as the mattress completes the final stage of its journey, launching completely over the railing and plummeting downwards.

For a split second, time slows down as I see the great white hurtling through space towards my head. Then, there is a moment of soft, compressing and squishing springs, and Chastity and I are sandwiched between the mattress and the stairs. Clementine pops up over the railing with a look of triumphant joy and begins to do a silent victory dance.

That does it; none of us can contain ourselves any longer. Pretty soon Chastity and I are too weak with laughter to attempt to free ourselves. We're trying to catch our breath when we hear it, from the parents room, a startled, quizzical murmuring followed by the creak of bedsprings.

"Shit!" Chastity launches forward, only to be knocked backwards again by the weight of the mattress. We are pinned. An unhelpful Clementine has one last laugh before darting into her room.

As footsteps approach the hallway, a burst of panicked adrenaline allows us superhuman strength; on “three” we push forward together and manage to punch, kick, heave, and claw our way out from under the beast. Sweating from the exertion, we somehow propel the massive thing upstairs, the tail end disappearing just as a flood of light fills the second floor hallway. 

Close. But we have somehow kept our record clean for yet another weekend night. 

ode to dartmouth.

Chastity and Donovan and I are downstairs at our favorite bar, indulging in some of our favorite activities. 

Chastity giggles as she takes the hit. “Hey, remember when we were here one time and someone's prosthetic leg fell down the stairs?”

“Or when we got kicked out because like 5 people had alcohol poisoning and we wrecked the bathroom?” I add, accepting the joint. “Speaking of which, where is everyone?”

Donovan is sealing the end of his latest cigarette while the other burns in the ashtray. “Rasheed is supposed to be coming.”

“Ooh, has he heard back from Dartmouth yet?” I inquire, as Chastity simultaneously asks, “Is he still hooking up with Gina?”

Before Donovan has the chance to answer, there is a crash from the upstairs of the bar, punctuated by an unmistakable voice shouting, “La putain de merde!!” 

A moment later, Rasheed, drunk, belligerent, and holding a 40 of vodka, appears at the top of the stairs.

“In answer to your questions….” Donovan begins,

“FUCK! DARTMOUTH!” Rasheed bellows.

“Yes….”

“And FUCK! GINA!”

“And no.”

Rasheed is making his way unsteadily down the stairs in between taking formidable swigs of vodka. We rise to our feet in concern, seeing as these stairs are supposed to be blocked off to the general public.

“He knows there’s a step missing… right?” Chastity asks as Rasheed crashes down the last five steps onto the floor.

“Are you ok?” We run to his aid, but he wants none of it. Staggering upright, he swipes our hands away and yells,

“I’m ok, I’m ok, I’m FINE! This is the best time of my LIFE! Two rejections in one NIGHT!” His dramatic gesture almost knocks over the tray of the bartender, who has just arrived with the drinks. Without missing a beat, Rasheed picks up a shot and downs it. The bartender takes in Rasheed, his 40 of vodka, and the joint.

“Now it’s three rejections!” I’m trying to make light of the situation as Sunset's door is slammed shut behind us. But Rasheed is already running off to the next bar, shouting obscenities and jabbing his vodka bottle like a spear.

Donovan, Chastity and I exchange ominous looks.

“This is the American dream gone horribly wrong,” Chastity notes as we attempt to remove Rasheed from a heated argument with a bum.

“This is the American nightmare,” Donovan concurs.

Half an hour later, Rasheed has everyone taking shots to his rejection. Standing on a stool, he even has the French people rallying against the unknown American university.

“Who’s that girl?” He cups his hand to his ear to hear our response.

“GINA!” We yell in unison, punching our glasses into the air.

“And what’s that school?” He adds, waving his arms to motivate an increase in volume.

 
“DARTMOUTH!!!!” We roar. Shots are taken, random cries of “Fuck Dartmouth!” echo through the bar, and embraces take place between new friends, brought together by the emotional intensity of the moment.  

Rasheed has collapsed onto his stool and is now ranting to his neighbor, hand on the shoulder of the man, who is nodding deeply as if moved to find and avenge this foreign institution.

An hour or so later, we have finally managed to drag Rasheed outside, where, in the square, he is putting on yet another public display for his newfound group of followers. He positions himself at one end of the circle, then begins to run full speed across the cobblestones clutching an imaginary object in his hands.

“Oh God, what is he doing now,” Chastity mutters, hands cupped over her face, yet still peeking through due to morbid curiosity.

“If Gina were a footballlll…….” The cry reverberates around the square.

Oh, no.

Before we have the chance to stop him, Rasheed is positioning the invisible pigskin and, with a dramatic, gleeful wind-up, kicks his leg forward as hard as he can, and, predictably, flies over backward before hitting the ground in a sickening crash. 

The backpack which has housed his beverage stash for the night has broken his fall, accounting for the loud tinkling sound. The French people laugh, clap, and whistle for an encore as we rush to his side. This time, he does not resist our extended hands, and there is a moment where, as he lies on the pavement, groaning, I wish desperately that I had my camera. This would be the perfect image to send to the Dartmouth admissions committee.

On the bus home, I learn more than I ever needed to know about Rasheed, his family, academic and extracurricular history, and the legacy of his brother, a current student of Dartmouth. We decide that it has all been a horrible, injust mistake, whereupon Rasheed promptly falls asleep on my shoulder. Every so often, between snores, I catch a mumble about varsity lacrosse or a 1500 SAT score.

Back at home, a feeling of dread washes over me as I peruse the Wellesley brochure for the millionth time. Would this be me in a few days? Despite my slight intoxication, I pull out my calculus book, wipe off the dust, and begin to scan its contents. I can’t let myself continue at the rate I'm going, or else there might not be acceptances at all.

sober on St. Anne

For the longest time, I couldn't figure out what all the fuss was about with Rue St. Anne. Sure there were a few homeless people. And a couple stray dogs. And yes, crowds of old drunk men harassed you and yelled, and occasionally there were knife fights, but wasn't that all part of the fun? This year was supposed to be about getting comfortable in all different parts of the world; if I were school director, I thought, I certainly wouldn't ban such a breeding ground for Life Experience. 

That was how I felt, at least, until the night that Chastity and I tried to go straight from the movies to St. Anne without any drinks or buffer in between.

The back exit of the movie theatre deposited us in central Rennes, where Friday night celebrations were already in full swing. We navigated our way past hordes of carousing sans-abri, their drunken cries echoing in the alleys, over broken cobblestones and wine bottles, and between puddles of liquor based vomit all the way up to Rue St. Anne, where packs of dogs and people were strewn about the streets haphazardly. 

As we shoved our way through the throngs, attempting to avoid both the leering men and mutts yapping at our clicking heels, I began to feel both terrified and disoriented. I grabbed Chastity’s arm.

“This is totally unfamiliar to me!" I hissed. "Are you sure we're going the right way?!”

“Relax,” she muttered out of the corner of her mouth, “Look straight ahead and stay calm. We’re just going to duck into the nearest bar.”

My heart was beating rapidly. Within the confines of a large, obnoxious group, we had always blended right in. In fact, we probably helped to make the street's reputation seedier. Now it was just us two girls, alone, and Hypochondria was setting in. What if someone snatched my purse? What if a dog bit my ankle? What if someone threw up on me?

“Ladies!” A familiar voice drowned out the slurred French conversation around us. It was Donovan, propped in the doorway of Madison Bar. His arms were extended in welcome, a benevolent smile was on his face. And suddenly, everything was ok.

the out-of-towners.

Bonne needed to go to London for an interview, and I was to accompany her. Our classmate, Janine, lived in London, and she volunteered her parents to put us up for the weekend.

We were allowed to leave school early on Friday to catch a noon-time train, and Ms. Reed waved us away from our 10:00 English class. "Go," she said. "You kids have fun."

Liberated, we danced over to the yellow boulangerie for ham and cheese baguettes, and secured some Bonne Maman cookies at the Supermarche for good measure.

"This," we crowed, as we once more strode through Rennes with cheeks stuffed with cookies, "Is going to be Amazing!"

But we hadn't made it far before the trouble began.

At Paris Est we had forty-five minutes to kill before catching the train to Waterloo station, so we decided to take a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood and maybe stop for coffee. So engrossed were we in conversation, it took about four blocks before we noticed that every other establishment was a sex-shop, and that there were at least three police sirens sounding simultaneously. Upon closer look, we quickly decided that the residents of this section were not people we wanted to be drinking coffee with, and we hoofed it back to the station just as fast as we could go.

If there's one thing a Bonne likes almost as much as a bar, cafe, boulangerie, or cookie aisle, it's a magazine kiosk. Luckily there was a large one near the track, where we could catch up on pop culture while awaiting our boarding call.

I was enjoying the latest Orlando Bloom interview when I felt a timid tap on my shoulder. It was Bonne, looking apprehensive.

“Umm, I just looked at the ticket again to double-check that it’s leaving in fifteen minutes, and uhh…. I just noticed that the station name is actually… Nord. Not Est.”

There was a brief moment as I stared at her, letting the realization sink in. Then,

“Run!” I screeched, snatching the magazines from her hand and flinging them, with mine, at the bewildered cashier.

I grabbed her arm and began galloping toward the quai, searching desperately for any sign of a metro.

“Nord….” Bonne moaned. “It’s probably all the way across the city!”

I sighed in defeat and stared up at the clock overhead, watching precious seconds tick away. There went our London weekend; there was no way we were making this train in time. But then, across the station, Bonne spied a glimmer of hope in the form of tiny, miraculous sign pointing up a flight of stairs and stating clearly, “Nord.” It could be just a way of clarifying cardinal directions, but we weren’t taking any chances.

“Onward!” I charged toward the sign.

“AUUUUGHHH!” Bonne had come face to face with a beserk pigeon that was trying to find its way out of the station.

“NO TIME!” I shouted at her, already halfway up the stairs.

We burst out the doors and onto a high-altitude Parisian street, sprinting the length of it and rounding the corner into oncoming traffic. No matter; I saw Gare Nord on the horizon and the quickest route to it was a diagonal across the busy street. Bonne shrieked in terror when she saw my plan but I didn’t waver; at this point it was every woman for herself.

We skidded into the Eurostar terminal exactly 7 minutes before our train was scheduled to depart, somehow managing to navigate through customs in record time and collapse into our seats as the train pulled out of the station. London was back on.

the out-of-towners (part two)

Part of the reason that we were so excited for the trip was that we believed it would feel like going halfway home. But from the moment we stepped off the train, we went into severe culture shock.

We could hardly understand anything anyone was saying; the woman at customs spoke so rapidly and with such a heavy brogue, I almost considered asking her to switch to French.

Then, the currency machines took half our money away.

"That can't be IT," I protested, staring in shock at the slot where two puny bills were now awaiting. At this rate, we'd never make it through the week-end.

Bonne finally managed to cajole me outside, where we were almost run down by a cab thanks to the whole "other side of the road" arrangement.

"Why is this so OVERWHELMING?!" Bonne cried.

I was becoming desperate to get to Janine's after such a long series of near-disasters. But the line for taxis snaked clear around the terminal and was easily an hour long. So when a man approached us and offered a ride in his mini-cab, we couldn’t have been more grateful.

“What luck!” We crowed as we followed him across several streets and uphill to a dimly lit parking lot.

“How cute!” We gushed at the sight of the compact Mercedes, which- how innovative!- didn’t seem to have any of the trappings of a regular taxi. Not even a meter. Maybe this was just how they did things in London.

“Turn it up!” We shouted at the sound of a familiar song on the radio, the beat a perfect accompaniment to the bright lights and spectacle of downtown London. It was Big Ben, baby, swathed in a pink and purple glow projected by the clubs across the river. Piccadilly Square, with its monumental flashing Tower Records sign. We were soon to be out among the bustling, well-dressed crowds carousing past our bass-pumping ride. Life, in short, was fabulous.

It got a whole lot less fabulous about ten minutes later when we pulled up at the corner of 1st and Sketchy, where our driver hustled us out of the car despite our protests that there was no way Janine lived at a subway station.

“It’s just a short walk from here,” he insisted, looking around apprehensively—or was it expectantly?- at the hooded figures lurking in the shadows who seemed poised to swoop in at any moment.

Finally, the gravity of the situation began to sink in. We didn’t even protest when he demanded 50 pounds, only insisted that we take the cash out inside the cab. I prepared our bags outside, trying to act cool as the street urchins approached, but the moment Bonne had parted with the money she flew out of the cab and we sprinted for the station, dragging our suitcases behind us as fast as their little wheels could go. Once inside, we breathed a sigh of relief; 50 pounds was a small price compared to what could have happened thanks to our stupidity.