After four years of saving …
begging …
waiting …
studying …
dreaming …
I was finally here.
The gentle breeze tousled my hair as I stood hundreds of meters up in the moonlit sky. Romance fluttered across my irises as fresh butter-baked croissants wafted in my nostrils. Masculine winks and smooth “hey bab-baby’s,” made me blush as deep as the pleasant rouge petalled roses adorning every street corner.
I am an 18-year-old woman, at one of the heights of my small-town life, standing on the second floor of the Eiffel Tower, with pink champagne in hand, and not a worry in sight.
Traveling abroad to France, Switzerland, and Germany was one of the most miraculous experiences of my life. The culture-love-bug bit me in the second week of my freshman year of high school after I had learned the French alphabet.
I was determined to save thousands of dollars to stroll along the streets of Europe. I was blessed with the opportunity to travel, explore, learn, ponder, and wonder at centuries worth of art, history, landscapes, culture, food, lifestyles, and people.
I was surrounded by the preserved past and the shocking reality when I was offered marijuana for the first time of my life near the Arc de Triomphe.
“Essayez de la weed,” a mop-haired French teenager offered me. I was stunned. What? Ok, despite the language barrier and the fact that most of my French host family and French friends spoke so quickly, what was he saying to me? The panic became evident on my face.
“Tu connais, la weed, la ganja, c’est une herbe heureuse,” he slyly smiled. "Herbe" I knew was grass, but a happy grass? Like sweet grass?
BOOM.
Like a Parisian cyclist whizzing along L'Étoile, it hit me with unsuspecting alarm. I was being offered marijuana (holy crap, MARIJUANA) from a shady version of Shaggy from Scooby-Doo on a skateboard in Paris.
Huh.
Our chaperon never went over this in many of my French classes.
“Non, merci,” I replied as sweetly as I could. My host sister, Dominique, and her friends laughed at me while they shared joints and lit up faster than the metro screeches at the Concorde stop.
This was my first time being exposed to drugs and the perilous perspective of Paris was just being revealed to my American innocence.
A few days and metro stops later, I was living the stereotypical female dream, shopping in Paris. Hopping from store to store, I was loving this prospect of Parisian life. After lunching at a picturesque café, we stumbled upon a colorful building. It appeared to be an older French townhouse nestled in the crook of local art galleries and shops.
A strange feeling seized my stomach.
“Come let us now go to this Art House, yes?” Léna, one of Dominique’s friends suggested in English. Thankfully they have taken pity on me and try to speak English around me when they can, and I greatly appreciated this.
Trying to be open-minded and out-going, “d’accord,” I replied, and into the “Art House” we went.
The stench of human sweat slapped me in the face like a used gym sock when I crossed the threshold. Sweat? What the heck has been happening in here? I thought as I cautiously followed the others.
Neon colors and lights were awkwardly cast around and sexual artwork caressed every crevice of wall, door, and ceiling. It made me feel dirty and dingy.
We approached a spiral of stairs guiding us to the second floor of the five story house. There was a long, lone hallway extending from the landing with many smaller, dark, and concealed rooms branching off of it.
Something did not feel right … I was not comfortable. And then I noticed the Eiffel Tower shaped dildoos, the rabbit vibrators, and dirty play rings resting in the corner of the hallway. My heart jumped into my throat, I ran to Dominique.
“I do not feel comfortable in here, I want to leave right now,” I said firmly.
“But I do not want to go Abby, I want to stay here and see the art,” she pouted. I had had enough.
“Fine, I am going to wait outside but you have 20 more minutes in here and then we all have to leave,” I stated. I half-walked-half-ran out of that God-forsaken “Art House” as fast as I could and casually leaned against a boulanger waiting for six fifteen year-old girls to meet me.
Three hours later …
Six fifteen year-old girls came giggling out of the house with disheveled hair, drooped clothing, and heels in hand. If I were in a cartoon steam would be whistling out of my ears. I stormed up to them.
“What took you all so long?” I demanded. They looked at me like I was a crazy woman and laughed.
“We were enjoying the art silly,” Dominique retorted.
They left me waiting on a random street corner of Paris alone for three whole hours. There was no use reasoning with them or explaining my anger, and I was becoming pissed off with them.
“Je veux rentrer maintenant, allons-y,” I said emotionless. I was beyond done with the day and I wanted to return to my house, not my French host family’s house, but my house—my home, my friends, my family, my town.
Nothing ever felt as wonderful as my mother’s sweet embrace in the Cleveland International Airport on American soil.
“So how was it Punkin?” my loving mother asked.
“I have seen so much more in these past three weeks than I have ever seen in my life, I have experienced more than I ever thought I would, and I have personally grown and developed more than I ever wanted to,” I replied hugging her.
“Really? That’s excellent sweetheart! I am so happy for you, so what did you see?” my gentle father asked with caring eyes as he toted my huge suitcase.
“The Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame, and a brothel—who knew French whorehouses were so colorful?” And my father dropped my suitcase with a quaking BANG onto the airport floor.
