The Girl From Montataire.
Itâs true. I met her in the hostel and invited her to join our game of Bullshit. There was an instant connection after that card game. We made faces at one another and relentlessly called each otherâs bluff. After the card game had finished, she changed her mind about going to bed for her early morning flight. Instead we walked around the city of Barcelona all night aimlessly, looking for a dance hall that would never be found. When we got back to the hostel we played more card games until she had to leave at 4am for her flight. I escorted her to the bus stop since it was still dark and I couldnât shake the growing feelings I was having for her. At the bus stop I mustered the courage to ask if I could see her again in France. I told her there was no pressure it was only for dinner and I admitted to being infatuated with desire to learn about her. Almost without any hesitation she said yes.
A week later I was in a parking lot at an airport in France. Following the hilarious confusion about where each of us were she found me, and I hopped into her tiny European hatchback. We were on our way to Montataire. Shortly after I got in the air was filled to the brim with playful laughter. It was intoxicating. She took me to eat kebabs at her favorite joint, then we went for a bit of coffee at a cafe to get some heat inside of us. It was freezing cold when we went for a walk around a horse racing track next to a beautiful palace but we didnât give a damn since we were too lost in each otherâs words. She asked if I wanted to go inside the palace to which I replied âI came, I saw it, itâs pretty, I bet you itâs pretty on the inside too. But Iâd rather not disrupt this pleasant walk with the pretty girl by my side. That palace will still be here when I come back to France.â. Conversation by the way, wasnât much difficult even though she barely spoke English and I didnât know a lick of French. We just knew what the other was saying and thought the otherâs accent was cute. Afterwards we hopped in her car and on the way back to her place, stopped at a supermarket for the ingredients for the French meal that she was going to prepare for me.
We got to her cozy house. I taught her how to Two-Step, and we waltzed around her living room filling the house with anxious laughter. She began preparing the meal and I stood by Incase assistance was needed. The meal was wonderful but nowhere near as wonderful as watching her observe me to make sure I was actually enjoying it and not just fibbing to make her feel good. When the meal was over I did my best to ignore her objections to my help, and cleaned what I could while she went to get her laptop so we could watch a movie on her couch. After what could have easily been 30 minutes of indecisiveness from her end I selected an American classic - Forest Gump. She loved it! And we got increasing closer during the movie, to the point where I was holding her in my arms and gently massaging whatever portion of her lay below my fingers ever so softly.
When the movie ended we changed into sleep wear and made our way into her bedroom. It was there we shared our first kiss, which was abruptly interrupted by her apology hoping that she didnât lead me believe that we were going to have sex. I was actually relieved . I didnât want to have sex. I wanted her to not have any doubts of my intentions or feelings with her. So instead we tossed and tumbled through different stages of our lips meeting, our hands meeting and our bodies resting upon each other. In between that and me partially dosing off we would ask each questions about our lives. She was ashamed to be unemployed, unmarried, and still living with her parents. I was lonely, heart broken, and deployed to the Horn of Africa. With her spread upon my chest I allowed myself to pour my heart out to her. I used phrases like âAnything easy isnât worth doing, and anything worth doing isnât easyâ. I told her of the duty stations all throughout Europe I could request a transfer to. I never wanted this magic that we conjured up to go away. But time betrayed me. Both of our alarms went off. It was morning. We hadnât slept a wink. It was time for me to leave her, and return to Africa.
The ride to the Paris airport was long and filled with extended silent periods. We didnât want to separate but we had to, I had to. She said what we both knew to be the truth. I am an American, living in America, serving in the American Navy. She is French, living in France, surrounded by her French family that she had no desire to leave. She explained that the distance would cause strain, it would be a hard relationship. She has no desire for a hard relationship. Hearing her words, even though I knew them to be true, I wanted to resist. I wanted to write the love story of the two people randomly meeting, falling in love, being far away from each but some how making it work and living happily ever after. But I know how the real world works and I was even more attracted to her sense of realism for the situation, especially since I was lost in my illusion of grandiose.
I wish I could say that the departure at the airport was a dramatic affair filled with passion, tears, and promises. But it wasnât. It was quick. A tight hug, and a quick peck on the lips. Then she was gone. One final kiss at the drop off to the airport closed the book on the accidental European love. She got into her car and joined the lengthy line of others leaving the airport. Once she was out of my sight, I walked into the terminal and began my journey back to Africa, back to real life, back to loneliness.
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