An Authentic Experience

Hard to blend in when you don’t speak the language. That’s the way it felt. She’d been there ten days already, watching flocks of sparrow’s wheel across Paris skies before descending to take their pick from the detritus left behind by the tourist hoards.
She felt no better than a scavenger herself, living off a stolen credit card.
Coming to Paris had been an impulse she didn’t really regret, except now she was in need of some human company, and daren’t use her phone in case they tracked her down.
She didn’t sleep well, fearing a knock on the hotel room door.
She’d seen the sights, bought the trophy goods from those exclusive shops lining the Champs Elysees. Visited Mona Lisa, hung out on pavement café’s, attended lecture tours at the Louvre, attempted to blend with Bohemian culture and failed, pretended to be Audrey Hepburn and failed, taken an exorbitantly priced taxi tour, scaled the Eiffel Tower and sailed along the Seine absorbing the magic scenery.
She was done now. The Metro held few virtues, the beggars and street poets few delights. The Flea Market provided few real bargains, and in the faces of the people of Paris she found weariness and a lack of spice. It wasn’t the way the movies had led her to believe.
She sat in the park listening as somebody was using the phone at a tobacco kiosk. He was American, dressed in Skid Row clothes and begging for someone back home to send him funds.
It could have been a line straight out of Henry Miller. He hung up in a huff and she watched as he approached a nearby bench where he slung the canvas bag he was carrying beneath it in disgust, placing a cigarette between his lips to contemplate the scene before him.
What he saw was what she had been looking at; a chocolate box scenario consisting of strolling figures, except instead of it being 1890 it was 2009, and far less colourful.
On impulse she sat beside him, and he ignored her out of instinct.
“You American, I’m American too?” She opened up.
The man glanced her way, scathingly. “Don’t tell me – you’re lost? You’re here to write a novel? You came to study Art, Design, History….love making?” He laughed, this time studying her face to search for contradictions.
“No.” She scowled, trying hard to be taken seriously.
He regarded her for half a minute. “I’m too tired to be bothered.” He leaned back to avoid her gaze. “And you’re invading my bed space for the night.”
She remained where she was. “I heard you on the phone…”
“No kidding. I was that loud eh?”
Was he being deliberately disagreeable, or did she give off something she failed to recognise. She had been ten days in the city that gave love to the world and no one had tried to pick her up.
It hardly mattered whether she liked his manners or not; she wasn’t there to judge.
“Can I buy you a coffee?” She asked.
He stared at her, weighing something in his mind.
“Why would you do that – you on heat?”
“No.” She grinned. “Nothing like that. It’s just nice to chat to a fellow American.”
He laughed at that. “Are you for real?”
She couldn’t blame him for not trusting her, it sounded lame even as she said it.
He directed her to a cheap café even though money wasn’t her main concern.
“Why me?” He asked when they’d been sitting there a couple of minutes and he’d got her to order food and cigarettes. He ate and smoked with equal vigour as she watched.
“I told you I heard somebody talking, and it was you. No other reason.”
He examined her more closely as he continued eating, until she became uncomfortable.
“You don’t appear insane, or entirely desperate for that matter. There has to be another explanation.”
“No.” She insisted. “I’ve been here almost two weeks, and just needed some conversation with a fellow American.”
“Get out of here.” He retaliated. “The city is packed with tourists from the mid-west. Just look about you.”
“Yeah, but they aren’t authentic.” She countered as he laughed in her face.
“And you think you are?”
He sat back. “I see it now – you’re after a cheap thrill – bumming round Paris. Got it in one. Pick the cheapest guy you can lean on – that isn’t me girlie. Go find yourself another fool.”
“No.” She said loudly. “No, that isn’t it at all. Why are you being like this?”
He paused, staring about himself as if expecting inspiration to fall into his lap. “And this really isn’t a wind up. You’re not doing it for a dare. Come on, where are your girlfriends hiding?”
“No girlfriends – no one. I’m here alone.”
“Then you really are a sad case.” He pushed the hair back from his face. “I really don’t care, stick around all you want. You won’t find it as exciting as you think. In the meantime, buy me a beer….”
She did as requested.
“You know…” He continued. “One of us is likely to get hurt, and it won’t be me. If this is some kind of experiment….” He leaned closer. “Let me tell you I generally disappoint women.”
“You won’t disappoint me, and this isn’t about sex.” She hissed. “Let’s leave it at that.”
He grinned, necking the beer. “You’re such a liar….., but you got my attention.”
“You trying to get me into trouble?” He demanded as she admitted to using a stolen credit card to get by. “You know what they do to people like that in France?”
“No.” She answered. “What do they do?”
“Well, it’s not pleasant…” He remarked, turning away.
Clearly he knew no better than she what might happen.
“You see I’m just like you – a displaced person.” She insisted.
“You don’t have a clue about me.” He snarled. “For all you know I could be about to jump your bones and steal that precious credit card out from under you. God knows I’m desperate enough.”
She ignored the provocation but not his next piece of advice, which was to move to a different hotel before the card could be traced.
The hotel she booked into was clean and cheap enough, but from the outside appeared little better than places the street whores took their clients, and certainly possessed an air of authenticity she breathed in each time she passed through the lobby.
Meanwhile he had borrowed money to take a room at a backpacker’s hostel as he waited for funds to arrive from home. It was a basic establishment, cramped and lacking in privacy (he told her), which was why he used her shower whenever he could.
He also washed out underwear using her sink, lounged on the bed and chain smoked the cigarettes she bought for him.
Who was using whom, she wondered?
“Why did you decide to come to Paris?” She asked.
“Why did you?” He countered.
He’d already told her his life story, which for all intents and purposes marked him out as a man that made ill-judged moves involving people who ripped him off.
It wasn’t a classic tale by any means and at any other time she’d have dismissed him as a loser.
She felt a little like a loser herself; the real reason she had come to Paris (that she kept to herself) was pretty stupid. She’d been having an affair with a married man and believed herself pregnant. She was not, as a matter of fact, but the impact this had on her was enough to force her to flee when she saw his reaction and realised she might be forced to face the consequences.
It was not something she could easily explain; all her life she had lived on lies, lies she told herself and lies she told others. Perhaps this was also a lie? She hadn’t decided how to play it. She didn’t want a man particularly, and not for sex. Perhaps it was simply company, or for comfort. She didn’t know, and would work it out as they went along.
“I get it – you’re in hiding.” He suggested.
“Hiding in plain sight.” She acknowledged, without adding anything to the remark.
“You’ll be caught. You any idea what French prisons are like?”
“You asked me that before – what are they like?”
She could see he imagined only the worst.
“I still don’t get it.” He said. “I’ve nothing to offer you.”
“I’m having an authentic experience.” She batted back. “What about you?” He made a bitter face at this suggestion that she reacted to by turning on him angrily. “Why do you even need an explanation?”
He shrugged. “Just keeping score I guess.”
“Well don’t. I’ll do that.”
“What’s that mean?”
Now she shrugged.
Clearly he was indifferent to her situation and would run the moment trouble came his way. So might she, but hadn’t decided her next move yet.
When the stolen credit card was eventually declined, they contemplated what to do.
“How much cash money do you have left?” He asked.
She checked her purse. “I’ve two thousand five hundred Euro’s and some change, plus my ticket home. What do you suggest?”
“In Paris that’s a couple of day’s expenses – for a woman like you. Me, I’m different…”
“Teach me then. Teach me to live cheap.”
He laughed. “You can’t very well sleep on park benches – better take that flight. Go home, face the consequences. I’m sure you can square it.”
“Not yet.” She said. “I’m not ready yet.”
They lived off street food, and for entertainment he took her to an old theatre that ran original movies in French and Italian. The place was ancient, with battered seats infested with fleas and they were both bitten.
“That authentic enough for you?” He asked as they sat scratching their bites beside the Seine while watching late night people ambling home.
“I’ll remember this when I get back.” She purred.
“Why just this?” He countered. “You’ll have a lot of time on your hands in jail.”
“I doubt that – it was Mom’s card I stole, and she can afford it. My stepdad’s a CEO heading up a global company.”
He regarded her dispassionately. “You don’t say, so all this time I’ve been hanging out with a Princess. What am I some kind of frog for you to turn into human form?”
She stared into his face, wondering why he reacted so angrily. If that was truly how he felt, then he could go to hell.
“You make it up. I’m through with honesty.” She snapped.
Next day, when he arrived at the hotel, he was waving a money transfer received through Western Union.
“What will you do?” She asked, realising it marked a high water point in their relationship, and maybe she needed to step up a gear.
“It’s enough for an economy flight home, or better still….I can go to Rome and live for a couple of weeks. Maybe something will come up for me there.”
She saw real excitement in his expression, contemplating her own position now the source of her finance had been extinguished.
It was tempting to throw in her lot with him, but that would mean a change of status. He might choose to abandon her once they reached Rome. She could easily become a drain on him and what was she offering as compensation? She wondered briefly about a swift seduction, but why pursue that route? She hadn’t finished playing her cards yet.
“If I cash in my ticket, will you take me with you?” She asked.
She recognised doubt in his expression as he regarded her suspiciously. “You won’t like Rome. I’ll have to live cheap. It won’t be pretty, and there’ll be no safety net if things go wrong.”
She knew it, but there it was. She had finally arrived at the point where fantasy and reality exchange places.
“I don’t care.” She answered. “To hell with security.”
They were due to meet at the railway station, and before packing she phoned home. Her Mom was outraged by what she’d done and stormed at her down the receiver.
“Mom, listen to me – I’m old enough to make my own mistakes. I’m going to Rome – I don’t have much money left. Can you send some; I’ll pick it up when I need it. I love you Mom, but I’ve got to go – I’m meeting someone….”
Her mother was not so easily put off and demanded more information from her daughter.
“I can’t tell you where I’ll be staying – I don’t know myself.”
There was something uneasy about her mother’s voice that caused her daughter to grow anxious.
“Mom, will you do what I ask?”
Her mother relayed the conversation she’d had with the wife of the man the affair had been with.
“No, I’m not pregnant – why would she say such an awful thing?”
She felt awkward having to endure the fallout like this and hung up without resolving anything.
The station concourse was crowded; she remained at the platform gate waiting, but he didn’t show, and after an hour she gave up on him.
Perhaps he had seen through her games, perhaps he had changed his mind and was simply travelling home.
For whatever reason, he had decided not to come. She wouldn’t chase after him, it was better they parted now even though she hadn’t finished with him, but what did that leave her with?
Clearly he wasn’t the real deal, but now she’d seen things for herself she felt certain she could turn this trip into the kind of authentic adventure she had wanted all along.
She had seen Paris, and now it was time to visit another city. Rome would do for a start. She would make it different this time, or she would move on.
The world was her oyster, and this was her chance to take the best of it. To hell with what she left in her wake.
Inside the train she moved confidently, going carriage by carriage until she came across what she was searching for.
It was a single man, obviously travelling alone and reading a copy of Newsweek.
She sat opposite, and after a few tentative moments during which she made sure to draw his attention, asked.
“Are you American? Are you travelling to Rome? Thank God I came across you…..”