At least in theory.
My real test would be seeing This One at the Pixar exhibit at the Musée de l'Art Ludique.
On an-all-too-Parisian evening of rain and damp, glistening city streets, I wrapped myself in my coat and made my way to the Gare d'Austerlitz. On the metro, I received a text from This One letting me know he was running about 10 minutes late.
I was posed on the corner across from the quai when in front of me was a gentleman in a beige coat and khakis, iPhone in hand; I passed him, turned my head back, and saw him.
¨Hey!¨ I cried out.
¨ There you are.¨ He smiled.
We made our way towards the museum, down the wooden stairs to the musée, and he asked me how I'd been, how work was going; I elaborated in the rapid, breathless sort of Franglais typical of my racing mind.
¨Woa, woa slow down!¨ He laughed.
¨Sorry. How about you?¨
He pulled the entrance door open.
¨Work is good. LOADS of gorgeous women.¨
Did I mention his new job is managing a digital team for a well-known luxury brand?
That's when the "completely detached in theory" became null and void. I felt a pang of jealousy, but kept face.
This One has a habit of pointing out to me that he is surrounded by "women". He did this in October when we ran the Nike 10k: he said he'd put his name on the back of his shirt so all the women could cheer him on. Is he trying to see how I'll react? Perhaps. The French are much more psychologically strategic about this love game than I'll ever be. I can't do anything but bear my heart on my sleeve.
Needless to say, I knew this thing about women to be nothing but bullcocky: I know for a fact and have it on word from Ambroise that while This One is surrounded by well-dressed, well-made up, and well-heeled women at his glitzy new job, he won't ever act on it because he's strict about keeping work and pleasure separate.
Nice try, This One.
* * *
The Pixar exhibit is a lush combination of acrylics, pastels, paintings, sculptures and crayon and pen drawings behind many of their most famous movies. As This One and I are both Berkeley grads, and our respective campus is about 10 minutes north of Pixar in Emeryville, we both have a fondness for their films.
We wandered through the artwork, at times separately and at times closer together. I prefer getting close to the work, seeing the brush strokes and fine details, I nearly hog the picture, I gaze intensely and study each minute detail. This One prefers rapid grazes, hopping from piece to piece. Maybe this describes our approach to relationships.
Once we got to the zoetrope though, all bets were off. He whipped out his iPhone and started taking video. Then we went into the widescreen movie theatre and watched the landscapes.
We were mostly quiet, but in a calm, cool way. No need for words.
* * *
Once we finished, we headed out. I told him I couldn't forget his present, so I culled it from my green Longchamp and handed it over.
¨No, what's this! You're spoiling me.¨
Yes, yes I am. But this is my way of making peace.
"Je gâte tout le monde.¨
He tore open the paper to find Amérique by Jean Baudrillard, a book I'd long ago promised him, and Paris vs. New York, as he lived in NYC for two years and loves the city.
We hopped on the metro, he got off at Sèvres with me, accompanied me to the corner of the Bon Marché and rue du Bac, bised me goodbye.
* * *
A week later, I was on a direct flight to California. The "homeland" that is no longer a home. There's something so unnerving about going back to America. A sort of close familiarity but a sense of being deeply uprooted at the same time; it's like déjà vu. I've seen it all before, but it is also jarring.I also feel like I'm fourteen again because I have to depend on people to drive me everywhere and things are so spaced apart that walking anywhere on foot is comical, not that I'm against it.
I have come to find cars tedious and annoying. The very rhythm of "get in car, drive somewhere, get out, run errand, get in car, drive somewhere else,¨ rinse and repeat is tiring. I don't know how people do it.
Another beef: why the HELL can't American wait staff just let you eat your meal in peace? Why must they bother you every five seconds when you're trying to have a conversation and eat? I get the whole "they want their tip" thing, but I would give a waiter a 10 dollar tip just to leave me be!
At the same time, there is some hard reality to deal with: unless I can find a full time job here at the end of this Master, the game is over. I cannot keep being a student here just to stay.
I'm tired of school. I want a real people job and am fighting hard to find one, preferably in communications and editorial work. I have leads, but I have no guarantees.
So my heart pangs because it knows: the next time I go home, it will either be for a visa, or for a permanent move. Part of this is comforting, part of it feels like copping out, and part of it makes me panic. Going back to the States would be hard, but part of it feels ok, because I feel like I'm in the boxing ring with this country and I'm exhausted and tired of fighting.
2014 will be a pivotal turning point.
* * *
Once at home, This One and I exchanged emails. Not super frequently, but enough to make me feel like there is something brewing. I texted him Happy New Year and he responded quite warmly. He asked me to send him pictures of California. He wanted to know when I'd be back to France.
¨Friday the 3rd, can't wait!¨
On the way to the airport Thursday morning in California, he emailed to wish me a safe flight. When I landed on Friday, all my Whatsapp messages came floooding in, including one I'd missed from him on Christmas Eve.
His above and beyond thoughtfulness has my guard up. Am I wrong to have the feeling he's been thinking about me?
That's a given. It's just a question of context at this point.
Guard up, guard up.
I've made the mistake before of not being demanding enough. Of settling for less.
I'm not so naive and so easy a lock to pick anymore. I refuse to be impressed by a few kind messages. Bring it, This One. If you really have decided you want me, you have a lot to prove.
