In this big house, all you can hear is my own laughter

One night this week we were sitting outside and Martine was trying to help me figure out some living arrangement for Tequila and myself.

“You should go to one of these places that has half-assed offered you a job, demand the job they offered and a place to stay, and make use that you’re a lady.”

“That’s a polite way to put it,” I laughed.

“I mean just use your feminine charm,” he corrected, insulted I thought told me to be a slut, basically. “Don’t do anything but use your womanly power.”

Hah.

I was desperate today. Everywhere I went with vacancies was too expensive, no one could house me out of the goodness of their hearts. There’s nothing more pathetic than shopping for non-perishables that didn’t have to be refrigerated even after they were opened. But there I was, at Géant Casino, doing exactly that. If I had to live out of my car or go camping, I at least wanted to be prepared.

My French has gotten worse from lack of practice, but I needed to continue looking for somewhere to stay. I called Carola, Manuel’s sister and a useful networking contact here, hoping that she could help. I left a terribly incomprehensible message on her machine. But I couldn’t stand it anymore. Sylvia may come tomorrow or Saturday or Sunday and I want to be ready to leave whenever she arrives.

As I was driving down to L’Esquinade to see if anyone there can save me, I noticed Le P’tit Club was just opening up. Can’t hurt, I figured.

Denis, the man who took me home that night, stood behind the bar and beamed with joy when I walked in – as he always does. Jerome, the other bartender, rushed over to give me kisses hello. Stephen, the bouncer with whom I practice most of my French, looked thrilled to see me. And they all asked the same question, falling perfectly into my pathetic mind games… “ça va?”

“Well… no.” And I told them my sad story of no place to sleep. All at once they offered me housing. Haha, I love it.

They chatted mostly among themselves for the next few minutes and finally Denis explained to me their decision in slow French. Still, I just couldn’t get it. So he laughed and said these exact words:

“You can stay here. There is a room in the back that you will have to share sometimes with Stephen, but he is never here at night. You don’t have to pay rent. But on busy nights, you might have to work for a few hours. Is that ok?” Ok? Hah. I thought he was just granting my every wish – a place to stay and a foot in the door for the perfect job.

Of course, I’m American. I always want more. “And my dog?”

They laughed. Sure, Tequila can stay too. Not in bed with me anymore, but she can stay.

Fate loves me. I can’t get over how lucky I am. And I’m so happy to spend the next two weeks with this crew – they may not care much about pollution, maybe they can’t sing or paint, maybe they’re not hippies with worldly ambitions and seriousness and alternative ways like Sarah and her friends were. But they’re wild and crazy and fun and smart asses – and they’re way more my type of people.

I fit in with them. I love fun too much to be confined to a world of serious art and melodrama. I belong to groups of private school boys and frat houses and, well, Le P’tit Club. Hahaha

And as I drove down to St. Tropez, going 90kmph and fully in control of my scooter, with my linen skirt playfully dancing in the wind, masses of red, white and blue balloons came raining down from two planes circling in the sky.

Happy Bastille Day. Viva la France!

I laughed out loud. Somebody pinch me, I must be dreaming.


Gotta go get Tequila a kennel for our little vacation away from Chez Michel.
= )