Line dancing in France

I'm in the process of cleaning and organizing all my files, paper, photo, electronic. I came across this story that I had published in Travellers Tales, a series of anthologies that share adventures of people who've gone all over the world. The books make a fun read and a chance to see places from the comfort of your living room.

 “I’ve a surprise,” Christian said as soon as I stepped off the train in Lyon. He drove me up to the hills behind the city, pointing out the yellow buildings and telling me the history of Charlemagne. His wife was at the door of their home. She ushered me into a meal that only the French can whip up with little or no effort. There was a salad with walnut dressing with self-picked walnuts, a chicken with olives, rice with seasonings, and green beans with tomatoes and onions and an herb I have yet to identify.

“Voilà,” Christian said as he brought out a bottle of Nouveau Beaujolais with a flourish that would make a wine steward weep.

“How wonderful. A great surprise,” I said feeling like a real insider to be offered Nouveau Beaujolais three days before the unofficial unveiling of the wine.

“That’s not the surprise,” he said. “It comes after lunch.”

After the last morsel of homemade tarte des pommes disappeared, we piled into his car. Exhausted from my trip and too much good food, I feel asleep and woke to discover myself in a tiny medieval village in Provence. Christian parked the car and we wandered through the streets that a normal-sized American car could not have gone through without scraping both doors. At a church he stopped and threw open the door.

The church, which has been built sometime in the 1200s, had been converted into the Salles des fêtes. Most French towns and villages have such a meeting place for any local event. The inside of this one was as modern as the outside was old.

But it was not the architectural ingenuity that left me gaping. The entire village was inside, all dressed as cowboys and all line-dancing.

“Surprised?” Christian asked.

“Flabbergasted,” I said, and then tried to find the French words that expressed my shock. I couldn’t.

The word quickly spread that a “real” American was there. One man came up and handed me a Budweiser. Another came to ask if I could teach him some steps. I blushed as I admitted I’d never line-danced, and making explanation about being from New England didn’t seem worthwhile. However, the man quickly offered to correct this. Within a few minutes I could sally and keep my hands in my back pocket as well as the next person.

While I was eating a saucisson, which was billed as an American hot dog but much tastier, several people came up to tell me about their visits to the States. Those who had not been there asked about this or that place, mostly the West, where I’d been on business trips, but did not know nearly as well as I knew the East Coast. I found myself talking about Greyhound buses, car rentals and the Grand Canyon, which I had seen.

The live country and western band was from Perpignan, a city near the Spanish border. They were good. They were also very loud. The leader began a series of announcements to thank the organizing committee and talk about where they would be next appearing. Then came the fatal words. “We’ve an American here with us tonight. She’s going to sing for us.”

I knew I was the only American in the room. I also knew that when I sang to my small daughter, she asked me to stop because it hurt her ears. And she was my kindest critic. The door was too far away for an escape. Even running would have been impossible because the crowd carried me to the stage.

I looked down at a sea of eager faces. All my life I had fantasized about being a singer as only a tone-deaf person can. I imagined cheering crowds.

“What would you like to sing?” the leader asked.

“Me and Bobby McGee?”

Maybe he didn’t know it.

He did.

“What key?”

Key? I knew keys existed in music, keys that apparently had nothing to do with doors. I racked my brains for one that sounded real. “C?”

“C it is,” he said, handing me the mike and picking up his guitar.

I looked at the mike. I imagined tomatoes being thrown, big flavorful, juicy ones that deserved local fresh-pressed olive oil and fresh picked basil, not the rejection of bad singing. I imagined the end of any decent Franco-American relations based on the auditory torture of the entire population of a French village. Then I saw the little button on the mike that switched it off. I did just that.

I indicated that the band should start and I started belting out, “Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train…” I waved for the audience to sing with me. I strutted up and down that stage like I had in a million earlier fantasies, smiling as I went. The band was great.

The crowd went wild with applause. I bowed.

The bandleader came up to me. “I’m sorry, but the microphone was off.”

“Ce n’est pas vrai?” I lied hoping my shock was as great as my fake singing.

“Do you want to sing again” he asked.

“I’d rather dance,” I said.

Christian lifted me off the stage. “You were great. I was so surprised. I didn’t know you could sing.”