Je Ne Sais Quoi

I had a reason for ending my work assignment at IEA mid-day on Thursday. I was expecting my last Paris visitor, my friend from the transit industry, Alasdair Cain. Alasdair's plane had been delayed from its original morning arrival time, and he was expected to arrive at my apartment mid-afternoon.

Alasdair and I had planned a two-week voyage around Europe. But before our adventure began, we had to endure my last few days in Paris. And I say endure because my aforementioned emotional denial was slowly evolving into an overwhelming sadness. Combined with the stress of moving and the back-breaking task of packing all I had acquired over the last four months into luggage suitable to airline regulations, it was not the easiest last few days. Fortunately, I was able to keep my breakdowns to a minimum so I could show Alasdair the amazing sights of the city I've come to love.

After dinner at a cafe on my street Thursday, we decided to ''flâneur.'' Flâneur is a French word meaning ''to stroll'' or to walk the streets of a city in order to experience it. Alasdair and I are experts at the art of flâneur. We started down by the Seine River and walked up to Ile Saint-Louis and Ile de la Cite. Crossing the bridge onto Ile Saint-Louis, we stopped to listen to a street band playing old jazz tunes. They weren't Parisiens, but a group of older American men. With the sun setting in the background and the music drifting out over the Seine, it was the perfect example of all that Paris embodies - music, arts, love, beauty, and that indescribable ''je ne sais quoi.''

We walked through the Ile, and stopped for some chocolat chaud in a cute side street restaurant. Warm and cozy from our thick, delicious drink, we sauntered back in the direction of my apartment, walking along the Seine. It was dark now, and the moon was reflecting off the water in a way that made the city glow. There are always people sitting by the river, playing music, talking and drinking. But tonight, there were also people dancing -- waltzing, tangoing, or just rocking from side to side. I'm not sure if it was planned or just a coincidence, but it was one of those moments that makes you stop and take stock of your life. It makes you want to throw caution wind and enjoy all life's pleasures. So, we decided to do just that, and joined in the dancing.

Friday was not any less interesting. It started innocently enough, meeting some of my IEA coworkers for lunch followed by relaxing in the sun on the Champs de Mars. After we realized the sun had actually been shining all day in Paris (a rare occasion), and we were quite sunburned, Alasdair and I decided to make our way up to Montmartre. We bought a crepe to snack on and went to sit on the steps leading up to the Sacre Coeur. Once again, we found ourselves in the presence of buskers - this time a man playing guitar and a woman singing. They were asking the audience for requests, so Alasdair requested ''Hey Jude.'' Unfortunately, the duo didn't know all the lyrics to the Beatles song. But, they had been adventuresome in their song choices and song knowledge (or lack there of) all night, and they weren't about to throw in the towel. So, they asked Alasdair and I to join them at the microphones. Alasdair was hesitant (rightly so as we didn't know all the lyrics either), but I made the executive decision that singing with buskers in front of hundreds of people sitting on the steps of the Sacre Coeur was an experience we could not live without. And though the four of us struggled a bit, the memory of people singing along and waving their arms in the air is something that will always be emblazoned in my mind.


ALASDAIR'S PERSPECTIVE: LE CHOCOLAT CHAUD

‘Pardon monsieur, on peut avoir le chocolat chaud?’ (Can we have hot chocolate?)

The restaurateur appraised us with that look of disdainful contempt that the French have been perfecting for centuries. ‘Je suis désolé madamoiselle, ce n’est pas possible, si vous restez ici vous devez manger quelque chose’. (I'm sorry, it's not possible, you must eat something here.)

But the young American fille was not to be deterred. She had spent the last few months dealing with this form of laissez-faire rejection, and was not about to let the small issue of a foreign language stand in the way of her uncanny ability to get what she wants. Quick as a flash, she responded ‘mais si on mange le chocolat chaud?’ (But what if we eat the hot chocolate?)

Wandering through the narrow streets of the Ile de la Cite, we had been craving hot chocolate for about the last hour or so. The mid-summer sun had finally disappeared, and it had suddenly gotten cold. Our initial attempts had proven unsuccessful, it was late and many of the street-side cafes had closed for the night, including one that sold, according to the American fille, ‘the thickest hot chocolate in Paris’. But now it had become a mission we had chosen to accept, both way too stubborn to ever give up once a strategic goal had been defined.

And so we approached what looked like a rather fancy restaurant, tasteful mahogany exterior and crisp white tablecloths. The odds didn’t look great, but our options were diminishing fast and make or break time was upon us. We entered, trying to act euro-chic in the vain hope that this would distract from the fact we were way too casually dressed for such an establishment. The restaurateur’s opening statement had perfectly matched his demeanor, and he fully expected this to be an end to the matter. Her instantaneous reply had shocked him and time stood still while he processed what she had said. She was joking, right? But as he formulated his response, her gaze conveyed an air of complete seriousness that seemed to be demanding a completely serious reply. And, he had to admit, she had logic on her side. And you know how the French love logic. And it was funny. This was undeniable given the fact that the diners at a nearby table were already cracking up with laughter, as was the waitress standing next to them. A broad smile slowly blossomed across his face ‘ha! Madamoiselle, vous êtes très drôle! Oui, vous pouvez manger le chocolat chaud ici!’

The American fille gave a triumphant wink to me as we were shown to our table. I smiled back, though I had absolutely no idea what had just happened. But I knew it was something good, and I demanded a full report ASAP. For the next few minutes I struggled to get my head around the fact that she had pulled off a witty one-liner in a foreign language. One that had made a whole bunch of Parisians laugh enough to let us stay. I was impressed and told her that she deserved to be commended. As we sipped our non-stimulating beverage, I practiced the now famous phrase over and over again, ‘mais si on mange le chocolat chaud?’ I knew it would make a good story at the very least, maybe even a song, a play, or the opening scene of a full Broadway spectacular starring Barbra Streisand and Hugh Jackman.

Given that I had only been in France a few hours, with four plane flights, three countries, two timezones, and one wedding ahead of us, I knew we were in for an interesting couple of weeks.