Belle Epoque
I am in a department store. It is a department store from when I was a little girl and it looks the same. The architechture is glorious, the ceilings are high and the moulding is especially beautiful. The cosmetics floor is full of belle epoque kiosks with women selling things. Nothing is modern and I am seeing it the way I must have seen it as a little girl. Everything is big and beautiful and mysterious - like I am walking through an adult world. There is a giant chandelier hanging in the middle of the space and it casts a flattering light on everyone below. I make my way across the balcony to the other side of the store - there is a tea shop there.
It is crowded. People are lined up in the hallways outside the tea rooms and they are visibly irritable and fuming. There are even busboys and waiters sitting down, catching a breath, and wiping off the sweat from their brows with white towels. One of them looks like Budgie.
I push through the hallway and come to a tiny kitchen at the end with one girl in it. I know her but I can't identify her. She is happy to see me, and I come in and hop up on a counter to sit and chat for a while.
I head up an escalator, and at the top are racks of colored clothes - all one tone and on the mumu side - cotton potato sacks in bright colors. There is a heavy set woman standing underneath a rack of dresses hung high on a column and she beckons to me. She says we have to talk, so we move out of the clothing area to where the dressing rooms are and sit down on two plush chairs. She is asking me questions about my husband. She says that I am only with him because he is a famous rockstar and has loads of money and even though in my head I am wondering who she is talking about, I hear myself answer that we met in high school and he was the only boyfriend I've ever had. I am answering her questions in an English accent, and a voice that is not mine. I realize that I am somebody else - that I am not describing my life, but am someone else in this story. I don't know if this is a movie or I am in somebody's body.
I walk away and get in a car. I am sitting in the back seat watching the buildings rush away from me. The sky is a gorgeous blue and the buildings are so lovely -- and I glance at a street sign and realize that we are in Paris. My dad is driving the car and my brother is in the front seat. He looks to be about 10 years old, so I must be a teenager. It suddenly makes sense, since I am gazing at the buildings with adolescent angst and a desire to get out of the car and explore every one of them, instead of being on someone else's time table with no control. I ask if we can stop and my dad says "no."
We pull up to our hotel and climb a giant staircase. As we make our way up the staircase, we can look down into the rooms - they are single rooms and kidney shaped, with gleaming hardwood floors and beaded doors that allow you to look inside. I wonder how we are all going to fit in a room like that. In some of the rooms are young girls dressed in turn of the century can-can outfits - it's like a parade of red lips and fishnet stockings. They stare at us as we go up the steps, but not in an unfriendly way.
Our room is much bigger - but still oddly shaped, and there is only one bed. My brother and I are excited because we are going to sleep on the balcony under the stars, and we see people bustling about to set up our beds out there. Many of the girls we passed along the way come into the room to see who is setting up there. They are all my age - they are teenagers and I am very shy, but want to talk to them so badly and be friends. They crowd on the couch and I am squeezed in at the end listening to them chatter in French and broken English. They are excited that English people will be staying there - they want to practice their conversational skills. We are all watching tall men in black pants and white jackets set up our room and light lanterns.
I finally get up the courage to speak and my heart is pounding when I say "Je suis tres desolee, mais ma francais c'est un peau mauvaise maintnant..." They all snap their heads to look at me and their eyes pop wide open, shocked that I have actually spoken - and all of them squeal at once and hug me and punch me and chatter in french and english. It fades into a blur of days and days with all of us dressed in feathers and fishnets and fun funky clothing -- running around with them all over Paris. playing cards, eating cheap food, and watching my French not only coming back to me, but getting better. We are all at a taco stand and I am ordering in French and practically fluent. I am amazed that my dad is not being so strict and is actually letting me troll around with the girls. I wish it wouldn't have to end.
It is crowded. People are lined up in the hallways outside the tea rooms and they are visibly irritable and fuming. There are even busboys and waiters sitting down, catching a breath, and wiping off the sweat from their brows with white towels. One of them looks like Budgie.
I push through the hallway and come to a tiny kitchen at the end with one girl in it. I know her but I can't identify her. She is happy to see me, and I come in and hop up on a counter to sit and chat for a while.
I head up an escalator, and at the top are racks of colored clothes - all one tone and on the mumu side - cotton potato sacks in bright colors. There is a heavy set woman standing underneath a rack of dresses hung high on a column and she beckons to me. She says we have to talk, so we move out of the clothing area to where the dressing rooms are and sit down on two plush chairs. She is asking me questions about my husband. She says that I am only with him because he is a famous rockstar and has loads of money and even though in my head I am wondering who she is talking about, I hear myself answer that we met in high school and he was the only boyfriend I've ever had. I am answering her questions in an English accent, and a voice that is not mine. I realize that I am somebody else - that I am not describing my life, but am someone else in this story. I don't know if this is a movie or I am in somebody's body.
I walk away and get in a car. I am sitting in the back seat watching the buildings rush away from me. The sky is a gorgeous blue and the buildings are so lovely -- and I glance at a street sign and realize that we are in Paris. My dad is driving the car and my brother is in the front seat. He looks to be about 10 years old, so I must be a teenager. It suddenly makes sense, since I am gazing at the buildings with adolescent angst and a desire to get out of the car and explore every one of them, instead of being on someone else's time table with no control. I ask if we can stop and my dad says "no."
We pull up to our hotel and climb a giant staircase. As we make our way up the staircase, we can look down into the rooms - they are single rooms and kidney shaped, with gleaming hardwood floors and beaded doors that allow you to look inside. I wonder how we are all going to fit in a room like that. In some of the rooms are young girls dressed in turn of the century can-can outfits - it's like a parade of red lips and fishnet stockings. They stare at us as we go up the steps, but not in an unfriendly way.
Our room is much bigger - but still oddly shaped, and there is only one bed. My brother and I are excited because we are going to sleep on the balcony under the stars, and we see people bustling about to set up our beds out there. Many of the girls we passed along the way come into the room to see who is setting up there. They are all my age - they are teenagers and I am very shy, but want to talk to them so badly and be friends. They crowd on the couch and I am squeezed in at the end listening to them chatter in French and broken English. They are excited that English people will be staying there - they want to practice their conversational skills. We are all watching tall men in black pants and white jackets set up our room and light lanterns.
I finally get up the courage to speak and my heart is pounding when I say "Je suis tres desolee, mais ma francais c'est un peau mauvaise maintnant..." They all snap their heads to look at me and their eyes pop wide open, shocked that I have actually spoken - and all of them squeal at once and hug me and punch me and chatter in french and english. It fades into a blur of days and days with all of us dressed in feathers and fishnets and fun funky clothing -- running around with them all over Paris. playing cards, eating cheap food, and watching my French not only coming back to me, but getting better. We are all at a taco stand and I am ordering in French and practically fluent. I am amazed that my dad is not being so strict and is actually letting me troll around with the girls. I wish it wouldn't have to end.
posted by The Dancing Kids @ 9:14 AM
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