I’m finally here.
While waiting for a taxi, directions to the hostel on a napkin in hand, I go over what to say to the driver. Comment dit t’on… I used to get excited whenever those Muzzy commercials appeared. I perfected my accent daily by reading out loud the French translation of the car’s manual. I even defied my parents when I decided to take French and not the more useful Spanish in high school. “I want to visit Paris one day,” I explained to them. When a friend said that his aunt used to live in Paris, I was instantly jealous. He meant Perris, California.
I mumble in English as the taxi driver opens the back door, perplexed by my handwritten map.
As a latchkey kid, opening the door to an empty house after school was my first taste of freedom. My imagination overflowed with boundless vitality. As key holders, we gave ourselves permission to dream without fear nor consequences. During those uneventful, hot summer days, my air-conditioned house was a haven to watch Lucy, Ricky, Ethel, and Fred finally make it to France. They brought French culture to my living room, but I yearned for more. Counting down the days until I was “old enough” seemed infinite. Daily life was boring but the future looked bright.
I’m finally here.
The driver doesn’t go. He motions me to get out. An older, sophisticated lady steps inside my taxi. As they drive away, the sun peeks from the clouds to say, “bienvenue à Paris.” I grumble, “je t’encule.”