Vignettes

1.
11:45PM
An Irish pub called Millennium.
Six Hyatt employees gathered around a table full of quickly emptying Leffe beer glasses and two baskets of peanut shells.

She said her name was Mannon. Her English was flawless. She is the reception manager at the Hyatt, a job she is very obviously proud of. Rather, a title she is very obviously proud of, but never the less, a good woman, it seems.
She was born in Brazil but moved to Argentina when she was five. Soon after that, she moved to France for grammar school, but because of her father's job, had to move to Italy for high school. She moved back to France for university and works at the Hyatt now.
Work- real work, work that pays, is hard to come by in Europe. It is not uncommon to lose a job and stay with your parents for the four months it usually takes to find a poorly paying position.
Work is tough to find, and life is tough to manage after it is found.
So if Mannon only had a few years experience in hotels behind her, how did she come by the very prestigious title of Reception Manager at a four star hotel so easily?
Easy, she speaks Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, French, English and Japanese.
Before knowing how and where she grew up, I asked which was her first language. She said kind of Portuguese and Spanish together. I wanted to know which was her primary language. She she said she didn't know.
I asked her, "Well, what language do you think in?" She said it depended on the situation. At work, French. With family, she speaks Spanish or Portuguese, but with friends from around the world she speaks English or Italian (unless they are from Japan).
Language is such an important thing. Our language can help to define our values, and it shapes our reality. In my conversations with my Filipino friend Sean, we have gone over the fact, time and again, that Tagalog (the Filipino national language), does not have a word for "sorry" because, why would you ever need to apologize? You would never do anything intentionally to hurt someone, and therefore would never need to apologize.
So, the way we speak and what we speak shapes the way we look at the world.
What if you don't have a language that you can call your own? What if every conversation or situation is a translation of a different language in your head? What if you could never really talk, really talk to anyone?
This woman, Mannon, was friendly, but she seemed a bit manic. She was always talking, always laughing loud, always jumping from topic to topic, always asking where we could go next. At 3am, she took us all into Paris to check out a new bar. We stayed until closing, and she wanted to go to another bar on the Champs Elysees at 5am.
She said it was to see more friends, but she didn't seem like she just wanted to go out.
She seemed desperate for connection. Lonely.
My friend Olivier agreed but said he didn't know why.
I don't know; it made sense to me.

2.
9:15PM
A metro train below Paris, half full of locals.
The train is quiet as it slithers along below the rues and avenues of the city above.

I was reading Camus' The Stranger on the train after a day of writing and carousing in the Vendome neighborhood of Paris. I was tired and needed a nap before plans to meet some friends at an Irish pub called Millennium that evening.
I hadn't eaten and was thirsty. These are two things I do not like to be- hungry or thirsty, for anything.
The book is good (great, masterful actually), but it isn't keeping my attention. I tried the iPod, but sometimes you just can't find what you want to hear. Try as you might, go through every record you own (if you still own records), and you just won't find a thing that you'd like to listen to.
The train stopped at Montparnasse-Bienvenue, a big station. The doors of the trains here don't open unless you push a button on the them, so you might not even notice the train has stopped if no one gets on. This was one of those times.
I had given up on reading or the iPod, and was just starring. You know how. The kind of stare you wake up from in a start and don't even remember what you were thinking.
I woke up from this stare when a thin man boarded the train, just before it pulled out of the station.
He looked around at all of us, with a look of displeasure. He didn't seem to like us.
He didn't sit, but stood motionless, with his back to the doors. Once the train started to move, he dropped a heavy metal case that he had in his left hand. He knelt next to the case,unlatched it, and took something small and black from inside, which he quickly concealed in his pocket.
The woman across from me made to stand up to move to another car, but he shot her a look and raised his hand very slightly to indicate that she should sit. Like a good dog, she obeyed.
People were getting nervous. I had my arm through my back pack, and my hand on my wallet.
The man was thin, and his skin was grey. His hair was very short, and his clothes were worn thin. He looked like a man who needed something. He looked like a man who didn't like being as hungry or thirsty as he was.
His head smoothly turned as he scanned the car again as he fingered the thing that he had stowed in his pocket, and quickly! pulled it out and brought it to his mouth.


"Besame..... besame..... besame...... besame mucho....."
The wireless microphone at his lips caught every silken note that he sang. He trolled the aisles of the cars, crooned to young girls (who giggled in delight and, I'm sure, relief), and winked at me, as if to say, "Yeah, baby, you know the score..." (I didn't).
The train had started to slow now, and the song was coming to its crescendo.
With a flourish of his right arm, he punctuated the final notes of the song, stamped his foot, and bowed low.
It was -exactly- what I had wanted to hear.

Everyone in the car stared for a moment. You know how. The kind of stare that you wake up from in a start, and immediately begin to doubt what was before your very eyes a moment ago. This is usually followed by a frenzy of applause and cheering and whistling...
But the train stopped, and this man had pushed the button to open the doors.
He looked around at us for a last time, and backed out of the train and off into the night.
Those that boarded the train took their seats, completely unaware of what had just transpired. They opened their books, put on their iPods, stared out the window. The rest of us closed our mouths, and looking around- smirked at each other.
We knew something they did not.
And the train picked up speed....

3.
8:30PM
Notre Dame Cathedral.
The square in front of the cathedral is loaded with people, clowns perform for children, Chinese "Write Your Name in Chinese" for a few euros, men play drums and guitars, tourists take pictures and twitter excitedly about how the lights around the cathedral have just come on.

I couldn't write anymore. I had had enough. Working on a short story that I have been planning in my head for about three years now. I can't get it out of my head and onto the page.
I had a drink of water, thought about getting a beer at a cafe, but chose not to. I would be doing it just to do it.
I wandered the square, watched the clown for a minute. I saw a man named Tony get his name printed in Chinese. I listened to the drums and guitars for a while- Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard.
Something was missing. Usually, music or beer or writing fills me up. Even watching tourists get ripped off is usually kind of fun.
But tonight, I don't know... You know how there are times when you want something but you cant say what it is? Not hungry, not thirsty, not tired, not bored, not... not.... not....
But there is something you know you want, if you only had the name. If you could only say what you wanted, you could have it and satisfy yourself.
The word, the thing eludes you.
This was the state I was in when I found myself wandering into the cathedral.

Did you ever think to yourself, "Geez I'd like some pizza, only to have one show up on your door step?" You know that feeling of perfect satisfaction?
The cathedral is cavernous and warm. It is dark for the most part, but the lights of thousands of devotional candles dance and sway in the corners.
It is silent. It is utter silence.
You can lose yourself in the silence.
It is so quiet, so still and calm, that I worried other people could hear what I was thinking.
But I wasn't thinking anything.
I went to light a candle, I don't know why...
And I thought about who I would light a candle for....
I miss my grandmother on my mom's side. If I can make people laugh, it is because of her.
I miss her, and thought I should light a candle for her.
But I miss my mom too. If I am generous, it is because of her.
I should light another candle.
But I miss my father too. If I am intelligent, it is because of him.
I should light a candle for him too.
But I miss my sister too. If I know the value of family, it is because of her.
I should light a candle for her too.
But I miss my wife. If I know how to love, and how to dream, it is because of her.
But I miss my other grandmother too. If I know how to tell a story, it is because of her.
But I miss my friend Mike, if I know how to love music, it is because of him.
I miss my friend Paul. If I know anything about loyalty, it's because of Paul.
I miss my brother-in-law Joe. He's only been gone to serve in Iraq for a day now, and I have already learned so much about standing for your convictions, even when everyone tells you that you're crazy.
I miss my friends Sean and Mike. If I have learned to help people in need, whenever they are in need, it is because of them.
I miss my dog. I miss my neighbors. I miss my street. I miss my shit-heap of a car.
I miss my friends and cousins and aunts and uncles.
I miss Lake Shore Drive.
I miss Chicago style pizza.
I miss falling asleep in my own damned bed.

The cathedral is silent. It feels like it is silent because it is listening.
I think I just needed someone to listen.
For the first time, in a long time (a REALLY long time), I made the sign of the cross, said a thank you, and headed out of the cathedral to catch a train.
I was feeling better,

and wondering what the night had in store.