Mixed Adventures in France

In the summer of 2010, precisely a few weeks after my Grandfather’s birthday, my family and I took a trip to France. We were visiting relatives. Generations ago, my grandfather’s uncle stayed in France while his father moved to America. My grandfather was a first-generation born American. His cousin Tazette lived in France with seven sisters. Her children were Cecilia, Elisabeth, Jeanette, and Adele. They were my mom’s "cousins." My siblings and I had four cousins: Wyatt and Jacques, Elisabeth’s children, and Azurine and Victor, Cecilia’s children. Adele and Jeanette never had children.

It began with a plane ride. As usual, we were rushed through a line by the conveyer belt, cramming all your belongings, pockets emptied, purses cleaned, into tubs, and repacking everything after it was analyzed by a machine. Still in socked feet, we shuffled everything out of the way of the line and onto a row of seats, taking up six chairs and some floor space for luggage. When our flight was called after about two hours into the night, we showed our passports and dragged our luggage through carpeted and laminated hallways, wheels chugged up the endless ramps, feeling like a competition to get on the plane before anyone else. We squeezed through aisles on the plane to find open seating. The luggage locked away above our heads, three of us sat in three seats on one side, three on the other. The earth tore away from us, our ears inflating. The clouds broke through the fin of the vehicle as we tipped one way and the other while gaining momentum. The pilot went through a list of safety and emergency instructions which luckily, we never ran into them. The food was far from gourmet and the smells were rotten. Every sneeze, cough, laugh and other sound was mixed into the same air breathed for seven hours. This was probably the fourth flight we’ve been on since 2001 when we went to Texas.

Our trip lasted over a span of three weeks. I only knew the phrases “Mon nom est,” which means “My name is,” and “Comment allez-vous,” which means “How are you?” “Respire” means “to breathe” and “bien” means “okay.” We packed a book of French translations, in case we found the need.

When arriving in Royan, we settled in Tazzete and Andre’s house. We were welcomed to their dinner table along with their daughter, Cecilia and her children, Victor and Azurine. They began with a course of cheeses, grapes, and bread. We passed them around in small dishes, circling the table. Afterward, we ate lobster with melted butter to dip it in, duck, assorted vegetables and chocolate wafers for dessert. We took a sunset walk down the shoreline on a nearby beach, played games such as chems and spoons, and came to know each other better.

The following day, we repacked and went to Elisabeth’s house. There was a trail behind her house leading to a frog pond. A few times, Raquel and Avery took their butterfly nets down by the banks and searched for life. It has a log bridge running across the surface. The water was like plate glass and reflected the sharp needles of the trees and the bright flowers on the bushes. She had a tent outside her house for meals in the spring and summer. Nearby was the guest house where our family slept. Yellow chairs dragged across the pavement as we sat down for a meal on a bright day that reflected the white walls. A breeze was easy to catch under the shade as we ate from a table filled with homemade, well-earned food.

In the French custom, families greet one another with a kiss on each cheek. Before I knew Wyatt or Jacques’s names and what they looked like, we exchanged “bonjour” and they kissed us each and walked off somewhere. Elisabeth and her husband did the same. My brother Avery was the storyteller and would have so much energy in the morning even after the exhausting flight. The wind wasn’t taken from him. He would spill tales of strangers invading his bedroom or something imaginative like that.

One night, Wyatt and Jacques had a party. Krystal (my older sister) was attempting to converse with Wyatt’s friends being the socialite she was. They began talking to her in French and when she didn’t understand, they repeated slowly. When she still didn't understand, they lead the conversation in English.

Krystal and Jacques were allowed a ride on Jacques’s vespa if they didn’t return home late. Before eighteen, Krystal tried her first small glass of wine. In France, the drinking age is 15 when accompanied by an adult. When they arrived home late, by almost a few hours, she was furious with Jacques. She and her husband were arguing about certain freedoms and rules. Elisabeth had safety in mind and was surprised about his lack of responsibility, taking my sister out after dark. The argument was heard through the closed window of the guesthouse.

One morning, Elisabeth took us to a horse show. Four riders with black helmets lead their horses along the sides of a closed arena. They wore thick leather boots with stirrups that occasionally rubbed the side of the horse to signal direction. Chairs were set up for an audience around the fences. The riders maneuvered around obstacles on the sandy stage, following one another in a pattern. There were ramps and steps set up with flaming hoops to gallop through.

Elisabeth also showed us Bonnaparte and Josephine’s castle, Mal Maison. Napoleon was the militaristic Corsica-born civilian who crowned himself emperor and lead a fallen apart country, out of the destruction of RobsWyatt's infamy. Josephine grew up on an island and her family owned plantations even before she became queen.

For dinner, Elisabeth took us to Jeanette and Blyde’s house. Jeanette was a lawyer who had two homes and no children. My siblings and I were almost like her children. She wanted us to stay longer than we anticipated. The desert she set out on the glass table was an arrangement of various flavored sorbet balls the size of cotton balls. They sat still on small wafers like saucers, all in a bowl made of peanut brittle. Jeanette had neighbors who came over time to time, delighted to see new faces while living in the "country." They had a daughter who at the end of our trip gave us jewelry as souvenirs.

Elisabeth left shortly after the union. Krystal, Raquel, and I slept in the small room upstairs. The roof was low and slanted over our heads, slicing the floor on both sides. In the middle of the dusty floor was a mattress made up for us. No one wanted to sleep in the cave Jeanette showed us earlier. Instead, it was used as a cooled storage room. Krystal rolled up a newspaper and spent spare time swatting masses of flies that easily slipped through the screen-less windows.

The Louvre was a prism with diamond panes of glass. Inside, crowds of tourists lined up to view in awe at the famous Mona Lisa, painted by Leonardo De Vinci. It was fenced off by yellow tape while security guards stood by either doorway. The smile was sly as the woman’s eyes reflected a sea of eyes in the protective safety glass. Outside the Louvre and away from her eyes was a wide platform of red brick and in the center, a tall lively fountain. We sat under it and allowed the sprinkler to bubble over our steaming skin, splashing our arms and dousing our faces under the jealous sun.

Another day, Adele took us on a cruise across the Seine River. In the shelter, we were served as if we were special, honored guests. People headed upstairs to get some fresh air and rare sightseeing in one packaged delight. We passed what I called the “twin statue of liberty.” We glided under a famous gold statue welded into a bridge, sped by the cathedral Notre Dame in the distance, and approached the World Fair’s, Eiffel Tower. We got a picture with one of our servers.

At night, Jeanette led us to a castle lit up by gardens of lanterns. The knights were well trained and stationed that if you said “boo!” they didn’t react. There was a large stairwell behind the drop doors. We went up the spiral, flat steps widening higher and higher. The sky was open to the interior of the entire castle, but it was navy blue. Darkness drooped from beneath the lanterns and stretched across the floor, striping the stoned walkways. Peepholes squinted at us in the dark, glinting with flames on their rims. As we were led through master bedrooms by tour guides, we noticed Jeanette walk in. She was holding Raquel tightly, concerned. Raquel was shocked, silent and tearful. Mom was whispering to her by the wall and they joined us in a few minutes. The guides were beginning to walk into another room.

‘What did I do?” Krystal asked. As siblings we used to bicker, but this was a different situation. It was like an unseen presence was disturbing her and taking hostage. It swallowed her ability to speak.

“It’s not you,” mom explained. "She feels like she’s dying.”

That incident stuck in my head ever since. The flames kept flickering and mocking us until we left. It was very chilly when the tour ended. That night, it took forever to fall asleep.

The following week, our family went to Cecilia’s house. We went to a museum displaying French fashion throughout history. Mannequins fitted in clothing and material created by designers that became successfully known around the region. Victor was the only boy. At the house, we all went to the garage to play table tennis. Victor then cooked a chocolate cake that we ate after supper.

We played card games and went to a cinema to see an American movie with French subtitles. On one of our urban walks along the sidewalks of Paris, we were being followed. The girl was about fifteen and came out of nowhere alone and with brown sandals. She looked like she knew Cecilia the way she gestured, but she didn’t speak, or maybe she didn’t know how to communicate. I don’t want to jump to conclusions. She looked like she was signing, and her face looked full of need and hunger. Cecilia rose up her hands in confusion and helpless impatience. We kept walking and the girl kept following. She wore jean capris and a pink shirt, I remember. She put a flat, enclose hand to her lips, as if to sign, “food.”

Our adventures continued. The underground T was loud, noisy, rushed and crowded with people from everywhere. Uniformed attendants held out their arms to organize somewhat orderly lines as the train screeched to a stop and the doors opened. Dad had his utmost essentials in his multiple khaki pockets. The rest was in his backpack, which would have been better off hanging in front of him instead of over his back. Mom had a purse tucked tightly under her elbow like it would be snatched in seconds by stealthy thieves or gypsies.

Someone quickly unzipped Dad's backpack, reached in, and was gone in a snap of the fingers. Dad was unaware until afterward when he couldn’t find his glasses. Another two men came too close for comfort toward mom. A hand was reached in her bag and she shielded away, hitting him. His friend hit him as well, as if he wasn’t involved, and said, “shame on yourself for doing that.”

Avery was with Dad waiting safely for us to catch up. They talked with Cecilia and her husband. Mom and I were separated from Krystal and Raquel. The T screeched to a stop, doors snapped open, and people scrambled by us, on and off the vehicle. It was maddening and we got our exercise searching for them. It was a mind-boggling nightmare where you just want anything to shock you awake.

Two older guys were shoving cigarettes into my sisters’ faces, forcing them to take it. They were trapped by their sense of these strangers invading their space. Mom dove in, blocked them with her arm, and demanded, "Get the—away from my children!” We were relieved to return to Cecilia’s house.

While the rest of my family joined Cecilia’s husband to see the catacombs, Azurine and I grew to know each other little by little. When playing a card game, I attempted to use French with the assistance of sign language.

“It’s okay,” she compromised. “Just talk like you talk.” Later for lunch, Cecilia made us both an omelet. Azurine offered to put on a movie and get a snack. To the snack, I said, “No, merci.”

On one of our walks with their family, an incident caught me by surprise, again. A young woman kept repeating something in French, grabbing the attention of people around her as she grew louder and firmer. It made me turn my head. At that instant, the woman’s frustration sky-rocketed. She took a fistful of her son’s hair and turned him around, pushing him in another direction.

“Did you just see that?” someone asked.

Cecilia was home with her family the day our family explored by ourselves. Some of the dirt roads were narrow, the buildings were nearly touching. The cars were smaller. Tourists passed street venders and musicians through the outdoor markets. Sound and spices filled the air that blanketed us. Still, home was miles and miles across the ocean. We bought some paintings, framed and signed by the artists.

One woman lead a trio musical at a booth. She wore long, bright skirts and at her tapping feet were coins and lanterns. One held an ashtray, which I had mistaken for a coin bucket. Still she smiled and nodded as anyone walked by. I ran off to catch up with the rest of my family. This whole trip was quiet the influential, mind-changing experience. It was a part of my family history that I've never been proud of before.