Wednesday, 13 May 2009
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
~from letters one, three, and six
Wait. What? And double huh? If you’ve read any of Jean-Luc’s poetic prose from the excerpts I’ve posted, you’d know he had no reason to apologize. For anything.
It’s me. I’m the one that needed, no needs, to apologize.
Our hot French guys wanted us to stay.
While the offer was more than tempting, logistically, we couldn’t stay in Paris, or so we thought at the time. Instead of an open-ended eurorail ticket, we’d already purchased single fares for the remainder of our trip, including our flight back to London from Athens. Which meant it would cost a fortune to change anything. We had to stick to the plan.
Of course, there were a few other options, but nobody was thinking clearly. So two young girls – hearts and heads pounding in confusion – were whisked away to Gare de Lyon. Patrick’s car screeched to a halt in the middle of the street. The guys grabbed our bags and we all ran into the station.
We had one minute, a mere sixty seconds, before our train rumbled down its tracks.
Out of breath, Jean-Luc and I shared one last kiss, as did Tracey and Patrick.
Our hands shook. Our throats croaked out our goodbyes.
Tracey and I stepped into the passenger car. Five seconds later, the train rolled forward. And through a window, we waved our goodbyes, watching our Parisian loves on the platform until they were specks in the distance. As the train lurched forward, gaining momentum, Tracey and I looked at one another and said the same thing:
“We should have stayed.”
The train picked up speed.
Chins quivering, we fought to hold back our tears.
“Sometimes I wonder if the stars are sparkling, or if it is the light of my own eyes stimulated by your memory and projected to them. So when you look towards the sky, and when you see the stars, maybe at the same time I will be looking at them too.”
~excerpt from letter six
No doubt, the rest of trip paled in comparison. We’d left our nineteen-year-old hearts in Paris. If only we’d missed that train.
Monday, 11 May 2009
Friday, 8 May 2009
Thursday, 7 May 2009
“I really think that it would be a disaster if we stop this passion between us. I am not a man who can live without passion. It’s the nerve of my life, the best we can do. And for this passion I have to do the best that I can to save it.”
~ excerpt from letter one
Hey, why stop our Parisian adventure, right? After all, it was only two in the morning on a weekday night. We didn’t go home after having our drinks on the Champs-Elysées. Oh no, Patrick had a membership at some private club in Paris.
From what I can remember, the car ride was both scintillating…and terrifying. We raced through the streets of Paris, the historical stone façades and pedestrians, a blur. Wherever it was we were going, I remember wanting to make it there alive. Good lord, the way Parisians drove – very similar to crazed taxi drivers in New York – frightened me to death. Seated in the back seat, one hand covered my eyes, the other rested on Jean-Luc’s thigh. The sexual energy was palpable, but besides stroking the top of my hand with his thumb, he hadn’t made his move…yet.
We finally made it to our destination: La Bas.
For 1989, the experience at La Bas went far beyond its time. Bottle service. But it was unlike any other bottle service I’d ever encountered. If you didn’t finish whatever you ordered, a brass nameplate (with the member’s name) was hung around the neck, and then stored for the next time you came back. Très cool. Vodka – that was the drink of choice. With accoutrements. Whatever we wanted. Soda, cranberry, orange, tomato juice, you name it, everything was ours for the taking.
Who were these guys?
Honestly, my heart soared. My head spun. I don’t even remember if other people were in the club. That’s how enraptured I was. Was this really happening? To me? It all felt very dreamlike. It’s not everyday a girl is swept off her feet. So it was a probably a good thing we were sitting down.
Needless to say, Jean-Luc and I were all over each other. White on rice. Crazy glued at the lips. There may have been some dancing involved, but I don’t remember. Or maybe it all started when we were dancing. I don’t know who kissed who first, but once it started, it didn’t stop and I don’t think my hand ever left his. This wasn’t your typical college hook-up, mash, or make out session. It was an intense, complete and utter out of the body experience. (I can’t speak for them, but I think Tracey and Patrick were having a good time themselves).
Hey, I was busy.
Busy. Busy. Busy.
The quintessential gentlemen, Jean-Luc and Patrick escorted Tracey and I back to our youth hostel at seven in the morning, but not before they made plans to skip work so they could show us around Paris a little later that day...