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.”
Posts
