Lost and Found
Mike came to visit me in Toulouse. I warned him that the South of France could get cold, and when he arrived in the airport lobby, I found his blue woolen cap bobbing above the European crowd. This winter has been unexpectedly harsh.
Luckily Mike landed just before the airport runways closed and before the city buses returned to the garage. During his stay, no one tempted to unlock the Toulouse Free Bikes for a spin around the snowy town. Sharp winds whipped through the cobbled streets and slipped through the bread maker’s thin windows, but Mike pulled on his blue cap, draped his camera—his pendant of adventure and record keeping—around his neck, and together we stepped into the blizzard.
We met my new American acquaintance at Au Pere Peinard, a bar named after an anarchist paper from the 1880s. Inside, the l
ow brick ceilings and narrow doorways were like an oven, slowly warming us up to the wintry life in Toulouse. The grungy girl bartender served us pints of Belgian beer, and the dim, orange ceiling lights made our golden drinks glow.
Down a few steps and through swinging glass doors, couples spun around the open floor space while the smokers tapped their toes by the wall. We found our way down the stairs, and tapped along. From this throbbing basement tavern, the heat of great friendships and great dance moves kept Toulouse alive throughout the evening.
This was my first trip to the anarchist bar and it was Mike’s first night in town. In my memory, the night was filled with the flashes of his camera. At the time, the blasts of light caught my attention, and led me I to see the city through his eyes. I found a new Toulouse when we flipped through his pictures the next day: its grunge, its edges, its grey skies and red buildings. Mike taught me how the light turned orange when reflected off the rose bricks.
Worn out with Toulouse, we hopped the train for Paris. I was prepared with a change of clothes and thoughts of Hemingway drinking Chablis at the horse races. Mike was armed with his camera, and with his mental map and memories from his semester at the Sorbonne. We agreed to visit a museum, drink little coffees in little cafes, and sit in parks. I had a special request to visit le Marais. It is a neighborhood on the right bank, west of the Bastille. Apparently the falafel is really cheap there, so I was sold.
Confident that we would find the Marais in the fourteenth arrondissement, I led Mike south, away from the Seine and the Louvre’s supersized majesty. While we marched, Mike told me about the king who wanted to control the masses. He blasted away the small, winding streets and replaced them with stately boulevards. We walked down one such avenue, blinded by the elegant apartments with flowery cast iron window grates. Mike said he was happy to be walking, however aimlessly, to a new neighborhood with falafel, on such a nice day. But the walk dragged on. I saw one bagel store and told Mike that I thought the Marais had lots of Jews. Unsure, I decided I’d ask someone. Maybe the Parisian would give me a stereotypical pooh pooh, but we needed some clarification, no matter how frigid.
We turned down a side street, and I looked for an unsuspecting old lady. But we stopped in front of a game store. There is something universally suspicious about a dark, satin-lined storefront displaying tarot cards, devil sticks, and polished chess pieces. My brother loves the art on playing cards so we stepped in. After ten minutes, Mike asked, “On y va?” But before we left, I turned to the silent man sitting in the dimly lit, back corner. His glasses fell to the tip of his long nose. “Monsieur, where is the Marais?”I asked.
Eight years prior, I remember Mike and I entered a game store in Milwaukee. Piles of hacky sacks and rainbow colored boomerangs made us dizzy as we looked around Art Dart’s Smart Mart. The salesman—a sixty-something chain-smoker—sat behind the counter. He was debating with a young boy, and in the back of the store a black curtain rippled. A strange odor wafted towards us.
Back in the fourteenth arrondissement, the Parisian storeowner sounded out my question, “Le Ma Rais.” It alerted me to the darkness and creepiness of the store on this foreign Parisian side street. “Le 17 ou le 21 ou le 84,” were some of the bus lines he mentioned. Luckily, we had just passed a subway stop, so he sent us back into the sunny day and down into the metro. Fifteen minutes later, we arrived in a new neighborhood once again.
We found no falafel or bagel stores in the Marais, but Mike downed a carafe of wine and I sent breadcrumbs flying. We talked about the French language, Paris and studying abroad. Across town, his old host family was probably feasting as well. The Dehautevilles were probably making jokes about Sarkozy and Carla Bruni and sipping on an after-lunch digestif.
Mike decided to show stroll back to his old quarter. It turned into a long march, and we passed the time debating whether or not we should knock on the Dehauteville’s door. Four years had passed since he had spoken with them. I can’t remember where we were exactly, but it was near the Ritz Carleton and an Asian restaurant specializing in noodle soups.
Just outside of the apartment, I gave Mike a sip of my water. We were going in. Somehow, the big wooden gate was already propped open. So we easily entered into the courtyard, but were still faced with another locked door. I don’t think the deliveryman in front of us had closed the door tightly, so when we pushed, it opened. As we climbed the stairs to the host family’s apartment, the debate about knocking continued. I realized that the worst case scenario involved us knocking, Henri or Brigitte coming to the door, looking through the peephole, saying to themselves, “God I hate when Mike shows up unexpectedly, I wish he would stop doing that,” and ignoring us completely. So we rang the bell and knocked, but there was no answer. Were they behind that old oak door? Were they peeping at us?
Mike wrote a note, and so did I. I wrote about teaching in Toulouse and about how peaceful Paris seems in January. Shoving the letters between the floor and the door, he seemed relieved to have the opportunity to tell them how much he liked and missed them.
We left that fancy neighborhood and slowly tromped back to our seedy hostel. Reading over his shoulder, I could see a bold subject heading that read, “WHOAHAHOAOOOO” or something like that. His family must have returned a few minutes after we left and quickly wrote my brother, inviting him and me to lunch or dinner the next day. But in fact, they also asked him, “Who is Allie?”
Mike called the number listed in the email. I could hear him clearly through the walls. Talking triumphantly and laughing loudly, he reconnected with his old friends, who were now sitting in the fancy neighborhood across the Seine, past the Louvre, and past the Asian noodle restaurant.
The next morning, when the metro door closed behind his black wool coat, scarf, and warm blue hat, I caught his eye and waved. After a week with Mike and his Canon, I missed him already. Suddenly I needed to tell him what I had seen during the seven days. So, once aboard my own train, heading south, I found a pen and opened my notebook.
