May 15, 1970
Paris, France
Janey
My father didn’t know how badly Vietnam had torn France apart, or how it still hadn’t put itself back together. He thought the war ended for France in ‘54. But in the spring of ‘68, riots, protests, and strikes brought the country to a standstill and broke apart the very university my father was sending me to.
I tried to explain this to him during my rushed registration process, but he didn’t get it. Or want to. He needed me to get away from the States, period. It didn’t matter that Paris was in a state of upheaval; no one had been killed here and that’s all that mattered.
As I said my goodbyes and boarded the plane, I pondered my plans for Paris. If my father thought I was going to stay out the war, he was sorely mistaken. My days of interviewing obnoxious athletes and dodging their grabby hands or ignoring their crass comments were over.
Even so, as soon as my flight lifted off, putting more distance between myself and Vietnam, I felt like a coward. Never again would I run away from a big story. There were still big stories in France; I just had to find them.
The flat my father rented for me was pretty keen, I hated to admit. I didn’t want to come here as a spoiled, little rich girl; an ex-pat, living off Daddy’s dime. But there I was, doing just that. The flat was in the 5th arrondissement, across the Seine River, and on the first floor of a beautiful old building. I had a small yard in the back where I could sit in the morning, in a wobbly wrought-iron chair at a tiny wrought-iron table, drinking my coffee.
I decorated the interior sparingly. No psychedelic prints or peace signs like my dorm at UCSB. The only poster was my Janis Joplin, Live at Winterland, and it was situated over my record player. I played a lot of Janis those first few days, and not much else. She had a reckless but melancholy feel to her singing that I loved. As if she were throwing herself at life full speed, no matter how hard it might hit her back.
All of my classes at the new Sorbonne—mostly French literature and journalism—were in the morning, leaving me plenty of time to myself. Too much time.
Homesickness and Loneliness were my constant companions, and I decided it was high time I ditched them in the city. Journalists had to live in strange countries all the time to chase the big stories; I needed to treat this like an assignment.
I grabbed my knapsack with my wallet and current read—Jonathan Livingston Seagull—and headed out.
I strolled down the Rue Cujas, past one of the old Sorbonne buildings. Shops, cafés and apartment blocks flanked me on all sides. I’d planned to sit at an outdoor café but my legs carried me past a dozen, and I couldn’t make myself take a seat. I kept walking until I heard Bob Dylan floating on the warm spring air, drawing me along like a sweet scent to a hungry person.
The blue lettering on white above the door said La Cloche. The Bell. It had a few tables and chairs outside, but the music was coming from inside, along with many talking and laughing voices.
I followed Bob Dylan into the interior to see that La Cloche was half-café, half-club; dimly lit, with clouds of smoke hanging in the air. A small stage—empty now—where a band could play, was tucked into a corner behind a tiny dance floor, also empty. The afternoon crowd was entirely young people; drinking beer, coffee, or cocktails, and clustered around rickety tables and crammed into booths. The walls were covered in posters of American and British musicians: Jimi and Janis; Led Zeppelin and the Stones; Sam Cooke and Patsy Cline.
My heart clenched at the Americana in particular, and I nearly turned around and marched back out. I scolded myself that I was tougher than that; if I didn’t have the moxie to battle through homesickness, I probably wasn’t cut out to be a journalist.
I sat at a small table for two. Behind me was a booth packed with young men and women; boyfriends and girlfriends, I noted after taking a peek from behind my long wall of straight blonde hair. The men had their arms slung casually over the girls’ shoulders. Loud talk and laughter rolled out of the booth like waves that crashed into me over and over. The men, I deduced, were all on a soccer team—football, they called it here—and had a game coming up this Saturday.
I knew nothing about soccer except that it was a huge deal in Europe, and that the soccer players and their girlfriends in La Cloche were very loud. It was stupid to think I could read here. I started to get up to leave when another loud swell of voices lifted in greeting nearly bowled me over.
I looked around to see a young man with longish brown hair and a scruff of dark beard, join the other players. He was tall and packed in muscle; his shirt revealed the tight lines of his chest and arms, and his jeans strained to contain his thighs. He had a pretty, leggy brunette stuck to him like glue; she gazed up at him adoringly.
While the friends in the booth pulled up another table to accommodate him, the guy looked my way. A flash of his dark blue eyes met mine, sending a jolt through me, as I realized I was staring. I didn’t impress easily, but this guy’s blue eyes seemed to hold a depth I wasn’t expecting.
At my slack-jawed stare, the guy’s grin turned cocky, breaking the spell instantly. I huffed a snort and looked away.
Nope. Just another arrogant jock.
I’d dealt with enough of those back home. I’d once had to interview the UCSB men’s swim team. I didn’t think I’d gotten in one question of merit between crass jokes, and declining requests to go out and ‘have some fun.’ Not one good man among them.
Fuming, I sat and tried to read my book. I’d been about to leave La Cloche but now I was stuck. The guy would think I was leaving because of him. I had to kill at least five more minutes before making my escape.
With my eyes in my book, and my hair shielding my face, I eavesdropped without being noticed. My mother would’ve scolded me for being rude, but the group was so loud, I practically didn’t have a choice.
I deduced that the girl clinging to the attractive-but-arrogant new guy wasn’t his girlfriend. He introduced her as Anna, and it was clear she didn’t know anyone there. She wasn’t a part of the tight-knit group, and none of the other girls made much effort to get to know her. I got the impression this wasn’t the first time the guy—whose name I had yet to hear—had brought a girl around.
Arrogant and a playboy. Even worse.
Minutes passed. The Rolling Stones played over the sound system. Mick sang that he couldn’t get no satisfaction. Neither could I. But as loud as the soccer group was, they sounded fun, and my loneliness wouldn’t let me leave them alone. When my five minutes were up, I stole a final glance.
They were all talking and laughing but for the extremely attractive guy. He sat slouched in his seat, legs spread, doodling on a cocktail napkin while his teammates talked about the big games coming up. Without the cocky grin, the guy’s beauty was harder to ignore.
I stared a moment too long and the man raised his dark blue eyes to meet mine. My breath caught as he smiled again, this time softly. Warmly. A tingle of electricity danced up my arm.
I quickly looked away. “Shit,” I muttered behind my wall of hair. Now I was stuck again. I couldn’t let him know he flustered me.
This is ridiculous.
So was my heart that was beating a little too fast. My cheeks felt warm.
I didn’t have long to wait; the team players and their girlfriends got up to go. I kept my face carefully hidden behind my hair, even as the urge to look at the guy one last time was fierce, as if he’d cast a spell over me. But I was stronger than that. I didn’t turn to mush like some of the other girls at college did over a handsome man.
You also don’t introduce yourself to new people. Those guys and girls could’ve been friends.
Loneliness leapt over Homesickness and when the group was gone and the front door of La Cloche closed behind them, I sighed. Not with relief but with disappointment.
I sat for long moments, staring at the blur of words on the page in my book, until a waiter, dressed in jeans and a black shirt—young with unruly hair—approached with a tray balanced on his hand. He held out a cocktail napkin.
“From over there,” he said, jerking his head back to the booth where the soccer players had been sitting. “I think this is you.”
I took the napkin. It was me, sketched in pencil. A profile. My arm was long and somewhat elegant in this rendering; my elbow propped on the table, my hand vanishing under my hair as I rested my chin on my palm. My eyes were cast down. Sad.
I stiffened and tried to hand the napkin back. “I don’t want it.”
The waiter only shrugged, smiled, and moved on. I pulled my hand back and stared at the sketch once more. The attractive guy made this napkin doodle. I was sure of it.
“It’s probably how he reels in a new woman ever week,” I muttered aloud in English. “No thanks.”
But instead of leaving the napkin on the table, I tossed it into my bag, and headed out.