Because it is impossible not to spend hours walking the streets of Paris, and because it is always so cold in December, it is essential to dive into cafes from time-to-time to unthaw your hands, feet and nose. In the first three cafes I retreated to for heat, each of them in a different part of the city, I was the only person over the span of a few hours who did not smoke.
In order to avoid the reality of the smoke clouds on all sides of me, I start to write wildly on a paper table mat about anything and everything. Enter a café with me.
The waiter does not quite know what to make of me or how to behave in my presence. Despite the fact that I only communicate with him in French, he knows I am not a native. It is depressing that my accent so quickly gives it away.
Interestingly enough, many Parisians think I’m French before I open my mouth and are surprised to hear an American voice speaking English. Given that I apparently have French heritage on both sides of my family, this should be no surprise.
After awhile, I begin to think that every Parisian smokes. Of course I remember this from living in Europe years ago, but surely, there are less smokers today than there were then, yet somehow it does not feel like it. I don’t remember feeling this strongly about the smoke on business trips over the years……..could it be my move to California? Likely so.
Two beautiful French women in their late twenties sit to my right, equally engaged with each other as I hear them talking about their weekend dates. The brunette blows smoke into the blonde’s face and she doesn’t even flicker.
She continues to laugh and nod at her friend’s story until I hear her call him an f-g something. Having heard half the story, I start to agree with her. Tuning in helped divert my attention from smoke to young arrogant men.
My eyes start to water, and my throat is scratchy, so much so that I grab my green cashmere scarf and cautiously dive for cover, to ensure my neighbors don’t think I hate all of them for lighting up.
The older woman on my left notices but instead of moving her cigarette to the opposite hand furthest away from me, I sense her getting closer to me. It was one of those dark thin unfiltered ones, the kind my grandmother smoked in the 1930s.
Her face suggested it must be one of “those;” her eyes were drawn in, her wrinkles deeper than average and her cough implied this habit had been around for most of her life. She appears to be working on a crossword puzzle and when she sees me writing, she moves the puzzle further away from me, as if in fear I’ll share one of her answers in some public venue.
My current reality is obviously distorted, as I think back to the San Francisco smoke-free cafes and bistros where I spend most of my time. This place and so many others I ducked into, was packed – every table filled with smokers, one after another. Young, old, fat, thin, fashion conscious, students in jeans, businessmen, creative types. It didn’t matter – they all had a hidden pack.
There is a group in front of me and a couple behind me – all of them inhaling and blowing smoke towards me, the cloud flowing past me from behind, my left and the right. I almost laugh out loud at the absurd extremes of my reactions. I have to pinch myself and glance at the the woman’s newspaper headline to confirm that it is 2006, not 1975.
What play would I write in that very café, how would it start, who would the characters be and what do they do with their lives, all of them with various brands of cigarettes in their hands.
There is another screenwriter involved. Where does he come in? How does he enter? He watches me from the window, as my head darts from left to right and back again, as someone lights up another. And then another. It becomes so surreal that the smoke begins to have new meaning, it starts to create images in my mind that may not really exist. Or do they?
A ballerina passes by me, above me, as she delicately glides from smoke cloud to smoke cloud. She pauses on the thickest of clouds, the one above a group of eight students at a corner table, all of whom have their cigarette boxes piled into a heap in the middle of the table. I’m surprised there is room for the ashtrays and drinks.
The screenwriter introduces himself to me. “We’ll test each other out on a single play, one we’ll write together here in Paris,” he says to me. While titles can often be the toughest, I smile wryly at him and say, “Death by Match?” He laughs and fades into a new smoke screen, this one is pale blue.
I am in disbelief at one point when I cannot see all of the oysters on my plate. Did I laugh out loud at that moment? Something tells me I must have – perhaps I should have asked my inquisitive waiter if he noticed.
My impressions tomorrow will differ from today, and the day after will be different again. It is so important to start scribbling the moment you get off the bus, the plane, the train, out of the car…..this is when your perceptions are raw, sans influence, sans distraction, sans others opinions, sans assimilation.
It is no wonder I don’t remember how I felt my first week in the smoky British pub near my old London university.
Our earliest thoughts fade into the distance as soon as we make them; otherwise, we’d never been accepted and adopted by the new culture, the one we have chose to make our new home. For most of us, fading memories are a must, so that we can assimilate and even survive.
Although humans can be stubborn, they can also adjust quickly. Creatures of our own environments, accents can be adjusted in a day, local dialect in a week, nuances in two, customs in three and before we know it, we’re assimilated.
They may never be we, but we feel we are they and our original self starts to feel foreign as we continue to distance ourselves from our prior entity. Author Doris Lessing understands this emotional skin change like no other. Today, I feel like I’m dying from a match next door. Tomorrow, from a neighbor’s inhale at a nearby table, and then later from my own.
The waiter comes back several times, but decides not to speak English, even if he could. My French is in dire need of practice, so I’m thankful. I guess he thought so too. I can tell that he still wonders what I am writing about and “what for?” — I guess I do too.
Every few minutes I take a break from my notes and notice him watching me. This continues throughout the night, until our second to the last encounter when he claims my credit card and runs it through his handheld processor, the same technology which made Chicago-based ex-boyfriend a multi-millionaire.
He forgets to leave space for a tip, I have no small Euro bills and he has no change. I apologize as I slip a handful of dollars into his upper shirt pocket, then turn around slowly and walk out the door. He yells thank you after me…..in English. The tone sounded kind, perhaps even happy, but until that moment, I couldn’t be sure.
My body is back into the frigid air and my ears and cheeks start to turn red as I make my way back to the flat.
And so life moves on in bits and pieces. We often forget that it is the bits and pieces that move on but the intense drizzle which captivates us, that change our lives forever.
Renee Blodgett is the founder of We Blog the World. The site combines the magic of an online culture and travel magazine with a global blog network and has contributors from every continent in the world. Having lived in 10 countries and explored nearly 80, she is an avid traveler, and a lover, observer and participant in cultural diversity.
She is also the CEO and founder of Magic Sauce Media, a new media services consultancy focused on viral marketing, social media, branding, events and PR. For over 20 years, she has helped companies from 12 countries get traction in the market. Known for her global and organic approach to product and corporate launches, Renee practices what she pitches and as an active user of social media, she helps clients navigate digital waters from around the world. Renee has been blogging for over 16 years and regularly writes on her personal blog Down the Avenue, Huffington Post, BlogHer, We Blog the World and other sites. She was ranked #12 Social Media Influencer by Forbes Magazine and is listed as a new media influencer and game changer on various sites and books on the new media revolution. In 2013, she was listed as the 6th most influential woman in social media by Forbes Magazine on a Top 20 List.
Her passion for art, storytelling and photography led to the launch of Magic Sauce Photography, which is a visual extension of her writing, the result of which has led to producing six photo books: Galapagos Islands, London, South Africa, Rome, Urbanization and Ecuador.
Renee is also the co-founder of Traveling Geeks, an initiative that brings entrepreneurs, thought leaders, bloggers, creators, curators and influencers to other countries to share and learn from peers, governments, corporations, and the general public in order to educate, share, evaluate, and promote innovative technologies.
