2005-01-11
"There is merde de chien in my hair!"
I lived in France, Paris to be exact, in 1981.
This means a couple of things. First, I can't give blood anymore because if you lived in any European country between 1980 and 1980something you may have contracted "Mad Cow Disease", and because there is no test for this disease (except an autopsy -- ha ha -- reports the friendly Red Cross worker), and frankly, this pisses me off. (Insert angry MOOOOOO here.)
Second, I have a couple of doozy stories.
I worked as an "etagier" -- french for "do nothing but drink wine and eat cheese" -- for Renault (remember them? of course you don't.) I really didn't do much of anything other than write letters to my friends on a french typewriter, which I am here to tell you is waaaaaay different than ours. It made for some pretty amusing letters. And yes, I said typewriter.
I lived in the heart of Paris -- about 2 blocks from L'arc de Triomph, in a wonderdul 1-room turret apartment owned by a very rich countess (who owned the building), and it was actually very cool, location-wise, but I worked on the far outskirts of Paris in a place called Issy les Moulineaux -- or something like that -- and getting there was no easy task.
My commute to work consisted of a walk to the subway, subway to a Big Commter Train, then another subway (with 3 changes), then a bus, followed by a 4-block walk. The whole thing took about an 1-1/2 hours.
Fortunately my boss loved me and didn't really care WHEN I got to work because he loved ALL americans and especially me, and his biggest concern was that I would arrive in time for us to sneak away from "Joscelyn", his stern but very sweet secretary, for a mid-morning beer (yes!) when he would regale me with stories of his "tahms een Amaireeca, ze country of fantastique". I loved the way this guy butchered our language -- and he had this great New Jersey accent because he loved Mob films.
He's on my "List of People I Really Wish I Had Stayed In Touch With, Dammit".
So one fine morning I was making my commute to work, all important in that "I'm a young American gal working in Paris, lookit me, la-dee-dah" kinda way, in my cute little American business suit and sensible pumps, and I go to the subway to the train to the other subway to the bus and start my walk to the office. I'm about 1 block from the office when...
*** important historical detail here for clarification: back in the 80s the French seemed to embrace dog shit like it was something sacred -- dogs would shit wherever they damn well pleased -- in the street, on the curb, in the very middle of the sidewalk, under the cafe table as they sipped their doggie cup of cafe au lait, etc. -- there almost seemed to be a sense of PRIDE that Parisian dogs were so regular and prolific in their bathroom habits. At some point the sanitation police figured out that this was one of the many things giving Paris a bad name, so nowadays they have Very Important Sanitation People in bright yellow suits running around cleaning everything in the streets/sidewalks, etc. ALL THE TIME -- if you are not careful, they will wipe food off your face or dust off your lapel.**** end of important historical detail
Where was I? Yes, about a block from work -- the home stretch -- still all very proud of my bad ass business girl self, looking around at the world in that "Mary Tyler Moore Minnesota is MINE" kinda way, and my left foot finds the LARGEST MOUND OF DOG SHIT in all of Issy Les Moulineaux. Seriously. Something left by a Bernese Mountain Dog after eating an entire 20lb bag of Peh-dih-gree pour le chien,
I begin to slide forward -- in slow motion -- flayling about trying to prevent exactly what happened, which is by the end of it I had dog shit all the way up the back of my calf, my back, and even... IN. MY. HAIR.
Yes, I basically slid THROUGH the mound of poopie in such an efficient way that I had single-handedly cleaned the sidewalk and spared others from a shit bath.
I remember sitting there, feeling something moist in my hair, reeking of that smell we all know so well -- the "recently broken-seal of dog shit" and thinking... "Well. Fuck me. There is merde de chien in my hair."
After recovering from the incident I laughed so hard I almost also peed my pants, adding to the entire "je ne sais quoi but tres scatalogical-ness" of the incident.
Then I remembered that I had to back track all the way to the rue Galilee in Paris to try to de-poop myself.
The bus. The subway to the Big Train. The Big Train to the subway. The walk back to my petitie apartment. In the company of others. And there was NO WAY in hell I was going to walk into the office and explain what had happened and that I may not be back to work that day (like I'd HAVE to explain) and I'm sure M. Terrier would have laughed his jersey-accented little ass off, so I just skulked home feeling like a stinky street person.... My french was not good enough to explain that I really had not INTENDED for this to happen, and say, wasn't it kinda funny (the french have NO sense of humor, especially if it entails making fun of their precious public dog piles), so I found a quiet corner in the bus, subway, the train, the subway again, and then finally skulked into my apartment, hoping that I wouldn't run into anyone I know.
Huckle buckle, there is the Duchess herself, 98 years old and wearing a tiara, wondering "vehn ah veel pay ze rrrrent forrrr ze manth".
I acted like nothing was wrong and calmly explained that I would take care of that immediately, as soon as I took care of some more pressing issues (which probably came out something like "Your mother, she looks like a cow." -- my french was FANTASTEEK, I tell you!).
Clearly this kind of thing happened all the time in Paris, because she didn't blink an eye at my disheveled, shit-covered appearnce nor do that "oh dear, vhat eez zat smell, cherie?" thing with her nose.
However, as I walked away I did hear here ask if I knew there was "sumzeeng eeen your hair, cherie".
Whatever I retorted was not kind and not in French...
Ah, Paris. Those were the days. I'm glad the dog shit police finally got some funding, though.
Mademoiselle Merde De Chien
xquzme at sometime today