It all started out innocuously enough. Benoît drives me to the train station in the morning to catch the train to Paris, and the station has a big sign out front: trains to Paris not stopping here today. Construction work on the track.
That's okay, we're not in a rush, so Benoît drives me in to Paris just far enough to catch a metro, which I do catch; and I get to where I'm going, which is my cooking class. Today, we're cooking cabbage stuffed with ground pork and veal.
I don't know about you, but I love stuffed cabbage. Cabbage: yum. Pork: yum. Veal: yum (and unethical. but yum). What's not to like?
However, this opinion is not shared by my classmates. Since I am the slowest person in the class (well, the slowest person in school, according to the chef), I have the opportunity to relieve each of my classmates of their unwanted stuffed cabbages as they leave the class.
When I finally finish my own stuffed cabbage, I have a total of seven stuffed cabbages before me. After filling my own tupperware and borrowing someone else's, I still have to professionally pack three cabbages in several yards of foil and plastic wrap. I am forced to choose between the seventh cabbage and my sweater for the last bit of space in my backpack. I leave the sweater in my locker. (It's hot out, anyway.)
Today is an easy day. I have nothing else scheduled for the afternoon, so I just need to pick up some groceries for the weekend. What could I possibly need with seven cabbages in my backpack, right? Q-tips, shaving cream, yogurt, cucumbers, cheese, etc. In total I end up with three grocery bags, which are fairly heavy because Benoît's annoying yogurts come in individual glass pots.
Luckily, all of Paris is on vacation because of Labor Day, so I will be able to set the bags down in the metro and the train; and I have La Trotinette, so once I get to my home station, I'll just slip the bag handles onto the handlebars and scoot on home!
This was not to be.
The metro part goes smoothly. I get to the station where I catch my train to go home, and I see that something is not right. The timetable monitors are turned off. I go down to the platform. Big signs: No trains leaving Paris. Perfect.
I lug myself, my heaving backpack (which is seriously unwieldy, mountain-backpacker-with-yoga-mat style), La Trotinette, and the grocery bags (which are starting to cut into my hands) up many, many flights of stairs. I'm glad I ate foie gras for lunch. Where else would I have found the calories necessary for this endeavor?
The bus stop is easy to locate: it's where forty thousand disgruntled people are all bunched together on the sidewalk, fighting for position. When the bus arrives, the group turns into a mad stampede towards the front door of the bus. I, all alone, walk gracefully in the back door, (???) and position myself standing by a wall. The grocery bags are on the floor, I am balancing La Trotinette, folded, on its front wheel, and trying not to hit people in the face with my large backpack.
As soon as the bus starts off, gravity attacks. Unsuspecting the weight of the seven stuffed cabbages, I lurch backwards, in slow motion, grasping sideways at a pole for several seconds before crashing, backpack first, into the lap of an elderly Chinese man. I've also smashed La Trotinette solidly into my shin. I start to sweat. 40 people watch me struggle to my feet. I play it cool.
I ride the bus for a long time. A lot of it is spent lurching uncontrollably. I stay on my feet.
People have to navigate around me in order to get off the bus. The bumpy ride is causing the groceries on the floor to creep out of the bags. The chorizo is headed off towards the driver. The cucumber has somehow crept out a hole in the side of a bag and is starting to roll towards the back of the bus. The cucumber seems urgent. It's a vegetable. It shouldn't roll around on the floor of a city bus. I pick up La Trotinette in one hand, to use it for balance (like a tightrope walker's pole, right?) I start slowly squatting down and reaching forward for the cucumber. But the forces of gravity change, again. I have leaned enough forward so that the backpack starts falling forwards, over my head. Carried by the weight of the cabbages, in a weird over-the-handlebars moment, I lurch straight forward, headbutting a guy's legs. To help me up, he grabs me by the backpack and sort of rolls me backwards, onto my feet. And hands me the cucumber.
Before I stand up, I successfully recover the chorizo (but not before sticking my thumb straight through the plastic covering the round of cheese). Once I stand up, my back feels weirdly wet, and I realize that the thick odor I've been smelling for the last fifteen minutes is definitely the cabbage, which has apparently bested my saran-wrapping. I play it cool.
Because it's all okay! I'm almost home! I think . . .
The thing is, I've never taken the bus before. I don't really know where any stops are by my house. So when I saw something familiar, I jumped off the bus as fast as I could . . . but now, all of the street names are familiar but none of them seem to lead to my house. I scoot bleakly in circles around the neighborhood. I know I'm close. Stuff keeps falling out of the side of the grocery bag. I take my backpack off each time to pick things up. I consider stopping on the sidewalk to eat a cabbage. It could solve multiple problems.
And then, I turn a corner, and the IRS building that I live next to rises majestically in the skyline. Saved, by the French IRS! I scoot straight home. The cat is waiting in the doorway, like he's heard me coming. For the last six hours. We watch dance battles on You Tube and listen to Missy Elliot. And wait for Benoît.
No comments:
Post a Comment