La vie est belle

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She climbs into her bed, in a tiny room at the Hotel Saint Pierre in the Quartier Latin, Paris. She nestles her head against the pillow, comfortably lying on her back, closes her eyes and relives the previous 24 hours…

Exactly 24 hours ago, it was drinks… drinks in the Pijp, Amsterdam, with all the friends who had responded to her open announcement… “My last Friday in Amsterdam guys, let’s have drinks!” It was bubbles, lots of bubbles… and lots of fun. It was a random mix of people who knew and didn’t know each other. Just the way she likes it, loving it to see when old and new get along. “How strange”, she thought while saying goodbye to them, one after the other, “Why do I keep on saying goodbye to people I’m having such a good time with?” No useful answer came to mind, blame the bubbles, so off she went, with lady S. to have a late night snack with lots of garlic and chilli sauce.

As the Thalys leaves Amsterdam Central Station, she settles into her seat and closes her eyes. It was a short night, so she tries to catch up on some sleep during the 3,5 hour trip. But her mind wanders off… What will it be like so see them again? Will there be enough conversation material after 20 years? Will it be like she remembers? An sms comes in… Damn, N. can’t make it to Paris after all and they were so looking forward to see each other again… It would have been so much fun remembering together… the music, the boys, the naughty stuff, the teenage troubles… But S. will be there… Will he remember it like she does, the kisses? She scans her brain… did they actually go out or was it just a crush? Did he have a crush on her like she had on him? She can’t remember, but no doubt she has a big smile on her face as she sleeps through the rest of the train journey.

There she is, 3 pm by the fountain St Michel, what a place for a rendez-vous. K. hasn’t changed a bit. Married and two kids, but still the same old talkative, sweet, serious yet fun girl. “Remember we used to compare grades?” K. says, “We were always competing for the highest average of the class, you and I…” They reminisce, laugh, talk, eat and keep saying they can’t believe it’s been 20 years ago. And then, there he is… The 13 year old prince charming is now 33 and he really hasn’t changed much. She would have recognised him anywhere, anytime. And there is S., the only other Asian looking girl at school. She doesn’t seem to have changed either, still all over the place and unstoppable. Now the chitter chatter really starts. “Remember him?” “Ah mon Dieu, ouais, he was in love with her, wasn’t he?” “Oui, but she was in love with this other guy, remember him?” “And do you remember that teacher?” “C’est pas vrai, yes, I remember him, the gay guy and his perfume!” They reminisce for hours, update each other on their current lifes and loves and then S. asks if she remember the letters… Her heart skips a beat… “Letters? What letters?” she asks. “You don’t remember you wrote to me, after I left Buenos Aires and went back to France?” he says. “Eeeeh, no I don’t, what did I write?” “Well… I had been nasty to you after we had broken up, so…” “What? Hold on, we were actually boyfriend girlfriend??” “Yes, I think we were, maybe a week or so… But you always had lots of guys after you and I wanted some exclusivity, you know… so it was all very complicated… Haha… Well, once I’d left, you wrote me letters telling me I was an asshole and that I had really hurt your feelings and I had had no respect for you, that I was a dog…” “C’est pas possible, I was 12 years old, I could not possibly have written those things” she says appalled… “Heh heh, well, you did! Enfin, a few weeks later, you wrote again, saying that you had re-read your diary from the year before and realised that I had been very important to you and that you felt that you shouldn’t be angry with someone you had cared about so much, so that everything was ok now. This turn of events was too bizar for me and I didn’t know what to write back to you. But a year later, my parents decided to move back to Argentina and I was really happy because I would finally see you again and get the chance to make up with you. I couldn’t believe it when they told me you had gone back to Holland, I was too late!! So there you go, just so you know, I really wanted to make things right with you…” Through the loud laughter of the group, she apologises to S. for having written those horrible letters 20 years ago but he in turn says it is him who should apologise for having been so nasty to her after breaking up… And so, all is forgiven... And in herself she thinks “Well, there you go… It’s clear that I don’t wait around for boys to come back (and that of course has nothing to do with the fact that her return to Holland was because of her father’s job) but give me 20 years and I’ll forget and forgive it all.”

Over dinner, the old stories go on and on and on and when saying au revoir at the end of the evening, they promise that the next reunion will certainly not be in 20 years time… When reaching K.’s house in one of Paris’suburbs, they go to bed exhausted from a day of retracing many memories and laughing even more…

Sunday is BBQ day. She feels very comfortable at K’s house, during the typical French lunch with K’s kids, husband and sister in law. Merguez, saucisses, baguette, red wine… the sun is out and after lunch, they relax in the huge green garden, reading, chatting, une petite sieste… And then she is off to Paris again. She would have loved to spend the day there with N., but helas, no such luck. So she casually makes her way through town dragging her little brown trolley behind her. “He is like a dog on a leash really", she thinks "He follows me everywhere I go! The good thing is I don’t have to take this one out for a shit twice a day…” Obstinately refusing to walk around with a big tourist map, she makes an involuntary detour trying to find the hotel. It brings her past a poster announcing a cello concert, the Bach Suites, by some guy named Antoine Pierlot, a prize winning musician. So two hours later, she is sitting in a Syrian Catholic church in Paris (there is a first for everything) and while she is admiring the antique interior, the tastiest 28 year old cello player she has ever seen, walks out on stage. Longish brown hair, fair skin, tall, slim, strong hands… Mmmm… "Ha ha", she thinks to herself "You’re here for the music lady, so none of that and focus!" And his musical talent appears to be no disappointment either… A few hours and a huge plateau de fruits de mer later, she is aimlessly walking along the Seine, too excited by the events of the weekend to go to bed yet. She finds herself strolling along the Pont Neuf, the Notre Dame, thinking how it came to be that she is now in Paris, alone but not lonely, feeling so alive… Back in her tiny room, she climbs into her bed, nestles her head against the pillow, comfortably lying on her back, closes her eyes and relives the last 24 hours…

The next day, in the Thalys back to Amsterdam, she starts reading a book she picked up in a hurry before the train left. The back cover says it’s about a guy in his thirties who suddenly discovers what life is all about and that it’s not all peanuts. It's described as humorous and she wants to read in French, so she buys it. It turns out to be about an unhappily married guy who meets the love of his life in Italy, tries to leave his wife twice but is emotionally completely unstable and can’t manage to make up his mind. “Well, isn’t that interesting, she thinks, the male version of Eat, Pray, Love…” He finally leaves the wife and goes to see his angel in Italy for a week of uninterrupted sex, love and Parma ham. “Oh well, she concludes, fiction…”

La vie est belle!

Gros bisous,

xYx