When Dana graduated from law school, we took a trip to Europe and wound up in Paris for a few days.
“I know it’s a long shot,” I told Dana on the subway, “But wouldn’t it be neat? I bet he’d invite us over. I know he would.”
We scanned the subway car, searching the faces for someone familiar and finding only anxious tourists who probably thought we were a pair of pickpockets, sizing them up. One man moved his hand to his chest, fumbling for the money belt I was sure he had duct-taped to his nipples. Most people go to Paris for the Louvre or Notre Dame. People probably dream of lunching somewhere along the Seine or exploring the the Musee D’Orsay or maybe taking a day trip to Versailles. We dreamed of finding and befriending David Sedaris on the subway and spending the rest of our vacation attending intimate dinner parties.
“I don’t think he’s here,” I sighed, holding onto a subway handle. “Want to see the Louvre?”
Dana shrugged, “I guess so.”
Our new neighborhood — our new block — boasts a popular restaurant whose chef was on the The Next Top Chef program on Food Network, and we’ve seen the guy around the city over the past few months: getting coffee at our new cafe, buying produce at the Saturday morning farmers market at the Ferry Building, working the front room at his restaurant.
“Maybe we’ll get to know him,” I told Dana, “And he’ll invite us over and cook us wonderful dinners.”
We dreamed about sharing recipes and shopping together at the Ferry Building, because when it comes down to it, we’re kind of crazy, both of us inclined to stalking others in our day dreams.
After an appointment yesterday at our new place, Emmeline and I explored the neighborhood a little more, poking around corner stores to see if they had the same brand of milk our current corner store sells. (Yes!) The chef walked in and chatted with the clerk for a few minutes while Emme and listened from the corner, feeling uncomfortably like characters from Single White Female. He seemed friendly, approachable, all too willing to spend hours cooking for us after a long day of work. When he turned around to leave, instead of introducing myself, I hid behind the Doritos.
On the way home, we stopped at Union Square and spent an ungodly amount of time climbing on green metal chairs and then racing each other across the plaza.
“Emme winning!” she would scream, toddling over the plaza like a drunken albatross while I pretended to lag behind. Occasionally she would stop the race, grab my legs and push me to the front of our two-person pack.
“Daddy winning!” she would declare, only to get perturbed a second later by my presumptuousness and demand I fall back again.
“No!” she would scold, “Emme winning!”
A young woman sitting on one of the green chairs smiled at Emme, who inched closer to bask in the momentary affection. And then suddenly she bolted again, and we were off across the plaza.
By the time Emme returned to the chairs a few minutes later, the woman was sitting with a man and wiping new tears from her eyes. Even from a distance, the words carried in the air.
“I don’t understand,” she cried, “Why?”
The man looked down as Emme reached for a chair. I grabbed her as quickly and quietly as I could and we left the pair alone. Emme screamed and kicked her feet in the air, while I whispered, “It’ll be OK,” and wondered whether she would ever have her heart broken in such a public space while a strange child smiled at her grief. Our hasty retreat back to the “races” reminded me of a line from that Auden poem, “how everything turns away quite leisurely from the disaster.”
“You’re not allowed to eat on the bus,” the man said, “Hey you. I said you’re not allowed to eat on the bus.”
We were sitting near the front of the bus and Emme was elbow-deep into a new bag of Pirate’s Booty, the only thing that never fails to keep her quiet and, more importantly, in her seat. The man got on the bus near Chinatown and eye-balled us for a few seconds before finally speaking.
“It’s the rules?” he said in a question in need of no answer.
I considered telling the man that Emme was tired after a day of exploring, and if he tried to remove the snack food from her clutches, she would probably jump to the floor, scream something about “ankles!” and then bite the ever living shit out of him. I considered telling him that she would never, ever drop a morsel of beloved Pirate’s Booty on the bus anyway. I considered ignoring him altogether or asking whether he knew that rules didn’t actually apply to us.
“You didn’t see the memo?” a snappier me asked. Instead, I did what I usually do when confronted with awkward social situations: opt for the easy way out and pretend to be a French tourist.
“Oh, je suis desole, monsieur, mais je ne parle pas anglais!”
The man grew exasperated and raised his voice an octave or two while I shrugged my shoulders and pointed to my ears as if they didn’t work.
“Quoi?”
The man went into an elaborate pantomime about not eating on the bus while my miniature gourmand continued to reach her grubby hands into the bag and not spill one. single. crumb. She giggled at the man’s antics but quickly grew weary of the MUNI Marcel Marceau and demanded I translate a bus sign for her.
Clear as day she said, “Daddy, read the words please! Daddy read the words please! Daddy!”
The man frowned at me and tossed his hands in the air, while I looked down at Emme and pretended not to understand whatever oddball language she was speaking.
I love coming here.
That image of the woman having her heart broken. Whenever I see a homeless person, I think, “Someone was as happy to see this man be born as I was to see my children.” Having children gives us a whole new type of empathy.
A real French tourist wouldn’t apologise for not speaking English.
i do that sometimes, but start uttering the 12 words in korean that i know . . . unfortunately i live in san antonio where a LOT of people are military – military who have LIVED in korea and SPEAK the language. D’oh!
Very good point, Kat. But it’s one of three phrases I can say with some manner of fluency …
I LOVE the French tourist idea. *Note to self: Teach the children French.*
I’m very nosy, er, I mean empathetic and caring, so all I can do is think aobut the poor young lady who was crying… I so want to know what happened!
Me too.
Your daughter seems to live to bust you. LOL
It’s nice to find a calling so early in life.
Isn’t it amazing how kids can switch from baby Urdu to perfectly enunciated English the minute you don’t want them to. And Kat is right, a real Frenchman wouldn’t apologize. Not that your rule-toting mime knows that. I think my funniest stories from SF involve MUNI or BART.
As for your local celebrity chef, have you considered getting Emme to make the introductions? Children are great for the socially inept.
I lurve your Muni story. I am so totally using that (ditto on the true Frenchman comments).
We totally need to get Emme & DD2 2gether. Then they can race each other while we drink mochas in those green chairs. DD1 will declare all of us whiners & demand hot chocolates! (Soon I will have way more time to come up to the City for train rides & such. Not that I’m going to jinx it, but I’m just saying…)
so lovely. If I ever go to paris, I’ll probably stalk david sedaris (and david lebovitz), too. they both seem so awfully human.
I grew up in SoCA and in my 20′s worked in a place with lots of movie stars and models hanging around. It’s funny how here everyone seems so many fewer degrees separated. Though I’ve never approached anyone I see in my daily rounds, I still feel like sometimes I could just ask folks over for dinner. I try to control myself. so far, so good.
Oh lord, David Lebovitz. He is the devil. I have gained 30 pounds because of him!
It’s amazing how easily you can become a stalker.
We call Pirate’s Booty ‘baby crack’ in our family. It’s my youngest grandson’s favorite, I mean bestest, treat!
Busted! That was awesome.
We used to live a few blocks from Chez Panisse, and whenever we were out we would always ask ourselves, “Was that Alice Waters?” “That looks like a hat she would wear.” Right. Like we would know. Anyway, I don’t think we ever saw her.
Love your blog. Cracks me up.
Amber
hee hee. I need to learn just enough sign language to do this too…
Pretend to be French?!?
Oh, you didn’t.
That is so funny.
I think your friendly neighborhood chef would be delighted to meet you. At this point he might be relieved to find your you are not a stalker and you actually live in the neighborhood.
You better be careful, DC Metro busted a girl for eating a french fry on the train a few years ago.
Those moments of humanity always sting, don’t they? Especially now, when every heartbreak I see or hear calls to mind my daughter’s newly minted soul.
Lovely. Thank you for giving us this window to your world.
dude – what if he spoke french?
Oooh oooh! I know the ‘hood! You live near the “parts” restaurant! …which is a good thing in my book. Mmmmmmmmmparts.
French? You are a nut, Mike! …which is also a good thing in my book.
I looked up David Sedaris’ number in a Paris phone book one time when I was there and called the number. No answer. Didn’t leave a message. You can only take the stalking thing too far.
Freak ….
And yes, citymama, it is the parts restaurant. mmmm
Ooooh, lucky you. I always wanted to meet someone famous. — No, wait, I’ve met you now!
Here’s a new phrase for your arsenal:
“Les dauphins sonnes mammiferes qui respirant l’aire.”
Ha! Very funny. The little munchkins always talk when they aren’t supposed to.