An American in Paris
(Previously published in Crapshoot! & Naked Sunfish Issue 7)

by
Rick Brown

My wife Yvonne and I had spent an incredibly enjoyable week in the small village of St. Thibery in the South of France. The locals had been very friendly and our British hosts made us feel quite at home. Even the parade of tractors pulling wagons full of grapes en route to the winery every morning at the break of dawn was...in the long run charming...albeit an intrusion to our ever sleeping in. It was harvest time in wine country. Every five minutes or so a tractor would rumble past our open windows...wagons filled to the brim with harvested grapes..soon returning the opposing direction empty and hungry for yet another load. The scene was loud, intrusive, and joyous. Food, wine, baguettes, frommage and Chef Ben's 5 course meals made the experience all the more sensuous. I was saddened when we left.

After three adventurous days in Nimes, a small city full of fascinating relics of the Roman Empire, we took the bullet train to Paris for the last leg of what we scheduled as a celebration of my upcoming 50th birthday. (Okay, okay...so I've been partying since January 1st and the big day isn't until November 2nd. It beats the hell out of moping around fishing for "Gee you don't look a day over 48" compliments doesn't it?) A swift cab ride took us to our hotel just 4 blocks from the Louvre.

Once inside our room I did what all men do after entering a hotel room...pick up the remote and turn on the television. And there it was. The image before me on the screen was one that I now share with probably billions of other people. "Holy shit! The World Trade Center is on FIRE!" I said in amazement to Yvonne who was busy getting settled. "Holy fuck! A plane just flew INTO the World Trade Center!" My first conclusion was that this must be some sort of bad made-for-television movie. But the image was on nearly all the channels...it seemed to be everywhere ... French ... German ... British ... American. Bad made-for-T.V. movies are NOT shown the world over...at least not at the same time. Yvonne was staring with me now. You know the rest...4 planes...buildings tumbling in their turns like houses of cards...thousands missing ... thousands dead.

There is no way in hell I can explain what it felt like sitting in a Paris hotel room (an experience in itself I never thought I would have) watching this devastation on T.V. with French commentary... then German commentary ... then British commentary ... American commentary ... back to French. It was everywhere. The scene is burnt into my brain like so many in my lifetime before it ... JFK .. .MLK ... RFK ... Kent State ... John Lennon.

Murder...murder...murder...murder...murder. None of these events were accidents. Not one. An accident is sad...tragic. The space shuttle image was sad...tragic...still is. But murder is different...very much so. Murder. Different. Watching murder on television. On nearly every channel. When you've watched murder on television...the telly...you remember where you were. You remember who was with you. You remember what you said. You remember what they said. You remember numbness...all over. Blaring silence in your ears. Pounding in your brain. Screaming in your heart. A violent punch to your gut. A thousand words stuck in your throat like a murderous fish bone...a thousand murderous fish bones...stuck in your throat. You hear yourself breath...watching others with no breath. No breath at all. This is how I felt. This is how I THINK I must have felt...all those times...all those murders. But I cannot be sure. I'm never sure...yet I'm VERY sure...always sure...this is how I felt. I'm sure...I think. Perhaps. I KNOW! Maybe...I think. This is how I felt sitting on the bed in the hotel room in Paris...surely...positively. I guess. Perhaps. Certainly. Yes. No.

Yvonne and I saw Paris. After all, we were on vacation. We walked everywhere. We saw as much as four days could give us. The Eiffel Tower. The Louvre. The Musee d'Orsay. The Arch de Triumph. The boulevards. The cafes. The people with their dogs...they love their dogs. The parks. The gardens. We loved Paris...everything about Paris. Loved it. Everything. Yet everywhere we went there it was. There it was again and again. The newspapers in the tobac shops. On the street corner obelisks. Memorial services at Notre Dame. At the Sacre Coeur. There it was. There it was again and again. I felt more American than I have in my entire life. A haunted American. Two haunted Americans...in Paris.

When our time ran out we went to the airport...just like you do when your vacation is over. Time is up. You go home. But at the airport...there it was again...there it was again and again...a hundred fold...a thousand fold. I had fallen in love with Paris with the woman I love...and yet I wanted to leave. I desperately wanted to go home. And I did...23 hours of security...insecurity...searching of bags...searching of souls...23 hours...security...insecurity...23 hours...later. I left. I came home. I came home...and...there it was. There it was again. There it was again and again. We both were home...Yvonne and I...we were HOME!...and there it was. There it was again and again.

I'll go back. I'll go back again. To Paris I mean. Again. I'll go to Paris with the woman I love...again. Only the next time I go...to Paris I mean...I hope it's just Paris. Only Paris. And when I leave for home...I hope...with all my American heart...I hope...when I get home...when we're both at home...I hope it's just home. Only home.