The spirit of Andalusia had permeated my veins, with the magic of the Alhambra, the beauty of Sevilla and its hot flamenco culture, the tormented tableaus at El Prado in Madrid, and the saga of Manolete, the great bullfighter of Cordoba. But as is so often the case when traveling, as soon as one begins to feel comfortable with the ways of a land, its food, sounds, people, language and unique smells, one is moving on to the next location, with its own individual customs. In Madrid, I had said my goodbyes to Anil, whom I would not see again on this trip, and to Rosalyn, whom I would meet up with later on in Florence, Italy, where our mutual friend Carol would be arriving in some weeks.
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At present, I was destined for Paris, but decided to stop in Barcelona for a few days to at least have a glimpse at its famous charm and architecture. On the train, I met an American woman named Stephanie, who was also traveling alone and as it was the Fourth of July, we decided to celebrate America's independence from Britain together and a share room at a pension. Stephanie was a medical student on her summer holiday and not someone I would have normally taken to, but her company was welcome, as I was missing my friends and still pining over my Manuel. We strolled the Ramblas that evening on a quest for the perfect restaurant, both festive and cheap. Once again, my Let’s Go Europe came to the rescue, as guidebooks often do when you just haven't quite the energy for searching.
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Barcelona truly is a handsome city, though little of it did I see on that visit. The following morning, I managed to get in a bit of wandering and shot some photos of the much-admired Gaudi creations. Looking up at his structures of wonderful architectural imagination, I felt like Alice on the other side of the looking glass in a world of swirled dizzying images. On my return to the pension to gather my pack and continue on my journey, I stopped at a wonderful little bakery to load up on breads and sweets for the day. The well-thought-out display in the window lured me in only to discover that the shop’s treasures went far beyond the delicacies for the palate. Before me were extraordinary tilework and wrought iron shelves in blues and yellows and white and all the baked goods were arrayed sumptuously in sculpted combinations behind curved glass cases. Each purchase I made was thoughtfully and tastefully wrapped and I marveled at how much care was given to every aspect of this small business in Barcelona, and others I had similarly observed in Spain and Portugal. Could it be that this fine attention to detail gives special meaning and pleasure to life? A secret seemingly lost on Americans who often seem too rushed to bother.
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I had shared some of my broken heart saga of Manuel with Stephanie, whose only comment was, “Well, you never know what is just around the corner.”
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She will never know what a premonition that was and what was to follow just later that evening, many hours after we wished each other “good travels” and parted. She will also never know how I have echoed her phrase many times since, in the spirit of Scarlett O'Hara, who in her darkest moments looked to tomorrow. Except I had only to wait for the setting sun to turn my corner.
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I decided to stop for the afternoon at Cadaqués, a small fishing resort that I had read about. It meant taking a bus to and from the train station in Gerona, from which I would later continue on to Paris. The problem was that my backpack weighed a ton (too much shopping in Spain?) and I did not want to heave it to the beach with me. I had hoped to ask at some restaurants if I could leave it for a few hours, but it was that part of the day between meals when most food establishments were closed. I next considered staying the night and just checking in at some pension. Then I examined the financial aspects. A couchette on the train would be costly, but alas, I would wake up the next day and be in Paris instead of wasting a whole day on the train. Additionally, Cadaqués was touristy and, consequently, a little pricey and I had no one to share with, so in the end I lugged my pack all the way through town, up and down too many hills, under a scorching sky to the beach, where I changed into a bathing suit under a towel and, exhausted, used my pack as a pillow, as I collapsed under the hot Mediterranean sun. The beach was a bit rocky but the water was delicious and the view rather picturesque, which made me think it would be nice to stay here another day and chill. I wrestled once again with the old back and forth, singing the Clash’s Should I Stay or Should I Go in my head. There was the hike back to the bus with my pack to consider, which of course is what I eventually did, Paris calling you know, only to recognize the same bus and driver that I had that morning.
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“Has this bus been here all day?” I asked the driver.
“Si Senorita, I have been waiting for you,” he replied with a wink.
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Both bus and driver had spent the day in Cadaqués which meant that had I known, I could have left my pack on the bus and only carried what I needed for the beach. Another one of those travel lessons!
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I finally made it onto the French-bound train where I had secured a couchette for the night. Standing by the windows in the aisle of the train rather than in the cabin, I was able to watch the world go by drenched in the golden light of the setting sun. I remember feeling exhausted from both my ordeal of carrying my pack back and forth in the heat up and down the hills of Cadaqués, as well as from the power of the sun, and yet I also felt titillated about arriving in Paris, a city I had been to before and, like most who have, had been enchanted. I wore a fresh coat of sunshine, and a lazy smile on my face as I felt myself sway with the movements of the train in an almost hypnotic state. Not long after crossing the border into France, we made a stop at Perpignan, a resort on the southern coast. As the train began moving again, I looked up to see, just a few feet down the corridor, a vision of such splendor that I must have inwardly gasped, but being so tired and numb, I know it did not show. Was this an illusion or could this man be real, as dazzling as he was? And now he was looking straight at me with the most beautiful smile on his perfect tan face.
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“Bon soir,” he uttered, to which I croaked the same. We continued to make light conversation and I was amazed at the French that was easily spilling from my lips. Lord knows where it was coming from, but I knew it would not be long before my repertoire ran out, so I confessed.
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“Je suis Americaine,” as if he didn't know. He later informed me that he knew almost instantly that I was American, or at least not French, because I was smiling. Had I been wearing my Reeboks that would have really given it away. Luckily this Adonis of a man was quite accomplished in English with an accent that would make any woman melt.
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His name was Tristan, and he was gorgeous. Like those drawings on the covers of drugstore romance novels of the time, he was tall and muscular, with wide shoulders and a slim waist, thick, wavy black hair and blue eyes in a sculptured face that any Renaissance artist would have begged to work from. And then there was that smile, with dimples and a slightly roguish slant to the eyebrows over those radiant eyes. Best of all, he too was headed for Paris, where he lived in a small flat. After the sun completed its descent, we went into my cabin where, at least for the moment, we seemed to be the only occupants. We were having a wonderful time, getting on famously, and when the train made a longer than normal stop at one particular town, Tristan ran out to get us some refreshments. Had it been a train station in the US, he would probably have come back with two Cokes, but this was France, and Tristan was the supreme wooer, and this was my magic fantasy, so he returned with a bottle of wine, plastic wine glasses and mineral water. As if I wasn't already intoxicated with the essence of Tristan, who was both intelligent and gentle, which seemed almost impossible on such a specimen, the wine also worked its spell. The aura, as the night deepened, grew heavy with the promise of caresses and sensual desire. Of course, it wasn't long before we were making out, two bronze beauties full of wine and warmth.
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At some point we made the discovery that I had read my ticket incorrectly and was in fact in the wrong cabin, an error I have never regretted, but as it seemed no one else was occupying this cabin, we pulled out the couchette berths and got a bit more comfortable. In the midst of our heated encounter, quite late into the night, there was a knock on the door from the conductor. A woman who had just boarded was with him, and apparently this was her cabin. Tristan went out and had a few words with the conductor - men talk, you see - and somehow convinced him to escort this other lady to the cabin that I was supposed to be in, solving it for everyone and allowing Tristan to get back to the matter at hand, that of seducing me. It had already become clear, as per his invitation, that upon arrival in Paris, I would accompany him to his flat as his guest, at least for a few days. But somehow Tristan did not wish to wait and wanted to make love to me this very night on the train. Can you blame him? And though I was greatly enjoying all the kissing and fondling that we had been engaging in, I was resistant to his urgings to consummate our union.
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“We should sleep now, “ I breathlessly uttered, perhaps not too convincingly.
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And so, I carefully removed myself from his arms and climbed up onto the other little single bed above. However, it wasn't long before we somehow found one another again to continue our fire and mutual discovery of each other’s anatomies. This was inevitable, as Tristan possessed true wizardry in the art of touching and even on a train, I felt every nerve ending react, so resistance, as they say, was futile. Though I was completely aroused by Tristan and knew for certain that we were to become lovers, for some reason I continued to oppose his attempts to take us to greater heights that would lead inevitably to greater depths, in a manner of speaking. We were still both rather clothed, which provided just the barrier for me to employ, though Tristan managed to find various entryways to my flesh, a skill in which he was obviously well versed.
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Finally, Tristan spoke some simple words to me, words like those in a fairy tale that reveal the hidden treasure, a phrase that opened a view to me that I have since tried to embrace as my very philosophy for living, sometimes with success. Tristan looked straight into my brown eyes with his heavenly blue eyes, one hand softly on my face, the other up my skirt and half spoke, half whispered.
“Take your pleasure.”
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It was a revelation and felt like a cloud lifting off of me. What, after all, was I protecting? My virginity? My reputation? The train’s upholstery? How ridiculous! This man was offering me just what he said, pleasure. I had lived long enough to know that life is full of many things, trouble, tragedy, hardship, stress, and when pleasure is offered freely, one has to be mad to refuse it. Seize it, relish it, embrace it, as I at that moment embraced this beautiful man and this gift on a night train to Paris, the most romantic city in the world.
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Upon arrival at the Gare de Lyon, we found a taxi and Tristan simply told the driver the address just like that! Voila! So, what is so amazing about that? Nothing really, except that being the type of traveler I was, the worst parts of arriving anywhere were getting my bearings, forcing myself to switch languages, and finding accommodation. I was spared all that with a few words uttered to a taxi driver by this white knight. Tristan's flat was tiny and reminded me of my own New York City East Village apartment. The bed was atop a loft, arrived at by a small ladder from the single room that served as everything else. It was a little love nest and what followed was ten days of absolute bliss. I was in domestic heaven, a welcome change from pensions and cheap hotels that smelled bad and barely had water, hot or cold. Tristan was the perfect lover, not promised to me, as he clearly stated, but this time was for us, and he made me feel like I was truly the only woman on the planet and his own little tarte aux pommes. Immediately establishing, on both our parts, the limitations of our liaison - for Tristan had other women in his life, and I was traveling and scheduled to meet friends in Italy - served to liberate us. We both gave generously and openly to each other. Tristan possessed obvious confidence as a man, and I'm not simply referring to the fact that he was classically handsome. He knew who he was and displayed a maturity that I have encountered in few men, regardless of their age. Never did either of us “lay any baggage” on each other. This time was clearly for the enjoyment of two souls who were fiercely drawn to one another on many levels, and whose paths quite fortunately crossed. Had the timing and circumstances been different, it is not impossible to imagine that we may have continued…
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Tristan worked as a concierge at a hotel during the day, which was just perfect. Each morning we would walk to the Rue Moufetard and have our breakfast: café with croissants and pastries. Those ten days put inches on my thighs, but it was well worth it. Tristan would stuff pastries into my mouth and lick off the cream that had escaped onto my face and lips, ending in a luscious kiss. I would then walk with him to the Métro where, before descending the stairs, he would sweep me up into a potent, fondling hug as if he were going off for six months to climb Mount Everest. The day would then be mine. Oddly enough, I did not rush off to see the museums and cathedrals. I spent my time shopping for our dinner, blending with the locals moving from shop to shop perusing cheeses, breads, fresh fruits, and vegetables. My days were relaxed, strolling the streets of the fifth arrondissement, doing the laundry, lazing in the flat, and listening to the stereo while I prepared the salad. After traveling for two months, I found that I welcomed this brief taste of domesticity. When Tristan came home from work, he would make love to me on his couch before even opening the wine. After dinner we would go out strolling to the cafés or go to the cinéma or wherever. Often, we would eat those crêpes cooked and sold on the street for one or two francs. My favorite was maron, chestnut. One night we went on one of those tourist boats on the Seine, where we were surrounded by mostly Americans and Brits. The tour was in English and pointed out the various famous structures along the river, all architectural treasures, but much of it was lost on me. Tristan and I were making out feverishly in the back where it was slightly darker and only mildly obscured the fact that his hands were under all my clothes. Rendered helpless, I simply could offer no protest against Tristan’s caress. Another night was spent at the cinéma but I remember little of that either. When we returned to the flat, we would race up the ladder to the boudoir and the passion would begin again. This man possessed more ardor than I had ever thought possible and commanded irresistibly gifted hands that electrified my sexual core like a magnet to iron.
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During my sojourn with Tristan, he had a few consecutive days respite from his job at the hotel, for the purpose of making a short journey to Bretagne to visit his nine-year-old son, the progeny of an early marriage that had lasted for only one year. Tristan had decided to buy a bicycle for the little boy's birthday. To accomplish this mission, we left early in the morning because Tristan wanted to stop at some car exhibition before shopping for the bike. To be quite frank, this would not have been my choice for how I would like to spend some of my precious time in Paris, but after all, this was Tristan’s day off, and if I wanted to spend one of my days in Paris with my lover, hey, I could get into looking at cars. To get there we passed by Notre Dame cathedral, where I pulled out my camera and turned into the obvious tourist. I have some fabulous photos of Tristan juxtaposed against Notre Dame’s famous gargoyles - beauty and the beasts. Continuing to stroll along the Seine, we were able to observe all the early sunbathers, some practically nude. There seemed to be specific sections of the riverbank for different sexual predilections.
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The car exhibition was housed in a very handsome building, yet after approximately fifteen minutes of strolling around, I was definitely finished looking at cars, but Tristan had barely made his way through the first third of the exhibit. I amused myself by photographing the cars and suffice to say, none of the images made it into my portfolio. When we at last left the less-than-exciting display of cars of the past and future, we continued over the Pont Neuf to the right bank to shop for the gift. Being quite petite, I was the perfect person, in the absence of a child, to try out the various bicycles for size and comfort. With my assistance, Tristan finally made a choice and we left the store with the bike out of the box and completely assembled. The afternoon proceeded with me riding and Tristan walking either beside or some paces behind me. I think I preferred this day over any other I have ever spent in Paris. The weather was perfect, with luminous pure white puffs of clouds scattered in a bright blue sunny sky, and it wasn't long before I had forgotten the morning spent among gleaming metal and chrome. Tristan was in a playful mood and his gentle nature and laid-back pace blended perfectly with my hyper talkative personality. Sometimes I would ride way ahead of him and circle back, so that this day encompassed both the tremendous rush of freedom and sheer joy I derive from riding a bicycle, as well as the opportunity to share thoughts, impressions and feelings with someone I felt so connected with in so short a time. Tristan took my camera from me as I rode, and his choice subject of the day was moi. There are photos of me on the little bicycle looking over my shoulder in response to every time Tristan called out my name. What a lovely sound that was! Our ramblings took us to a variety of Parisian landmarks and I felt like Audrey Hepburn in a 1950s movie with a French Gregory Peck in tow.
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While in St. Germain, Tristan decided to rely on my keen sense of fashion to help him shop for some jeans. I guess he figured it would take an American to know which Levi's were the hippest. Tristan could have put on the un-hippest jeans with weird denim and still made them look good, so my opinion was actually worthless, but I did not let on. A selection was made, but only after I insisted Tristan model several pairs for me in various degrees of tightness. In the course of this rather stimulating shopping spree, it was revealed that Tristan did not have an adequate belt to accessorize his new Levi’s. Weeks later, while shopping in Florence, I found the perfect belt and sent it to Tristan for his birthday. I hope he wore it to its limp and tattered death and thought of me with every buckling and unbuckling.
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The next morning, Tristan got up before me to run a few errands before departing on his trip to Bretagne. When he returned, I roused myself, threw on a short cotton tee shirt dress, and went down the ladder from the loft to join him for some coffee. Just before he left for the train, Tristan took me into his arms to kiss me goodbye. One hand just could not help roaming under my little mini dress and he suddenly pulled back and exclaimed, wide-eyed, “Where are your underpairs?” I can still hear this charming attempt at English that was just slightly off. I have also never forgotten Tristan's swift metamorphosis into a hungry lover who had to have me immediately, even if he risked missing his train. Less than one hour before this man had laid beside my naked body. But it was the absence of “underpairs” beneath my dress that kindled his sexual desire. What followed was not the lengthiest lovemaking encounter we shared but it certainly was not lacking in fervor. But the time I had recovered on the couch, Tristan had slipped out (the door).
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How wonderful to have the flat to myself, allowing me to fantasize I was living in Paris! Off for a stroll in the Jardin de Luxembourg! Enjoy a coffee and croissant at a nearby café! Hop on the Métro! I also had the time to discover more of Tristan's soul by exploring his personal world. His bookshelf contained mostly pages of philosophy and I still could not reconcile that a man could look like Tristan, be so giving and sensual as a lover, and yet be so pensive, intelligent and emotional. I had been too long exposed to the notion that looking like a Greek god is usually coupled with either a lack of wisdom, being an asshole, or both. It was Tristan who planted the seed in me to go to Asia. He himself had to traveled to India and was full of descriptive stories. Some of the books in his collection echoed his interest in the East.
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I spent one afternoon with my New York friend Kathleen at La Picine, an outdoor swimming pool built atop a platform along the Seine. The fee for swimming and sunning on the lounge chairs on the deck surrounding the pool included the rental of a small locker for changing and use of the showers. I could not imagine a typical American population fitting into those lockers. But there was something else about the Parisians in this scene that was principally different from Americans in a similar setting. At first, I could not place it until I finally realized it was the children. They were so well-behaved.
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Tristan returned early morning two days later while I was still in bed. Even though I heard him come in, I pretended I was still sleeping just so I could enjoy some more silence and be able to observe my lover through the slats in the loft without him knowing it. He was being deliberately quiet in order not to wake me as he placed his bag carefully onto the floor, glanced at his mail and took a shower. Then he came soundlessly up the stairs like a cat, climbed into the bed next to me, and was mine, as my body melted into his transcendent kisses and strokes.
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That afternoon was shared with another woman I knew from New York. Though she had essentially no experience or many leads, my friend had come to Paris to seek modeling work, as she had heard there was a demand in Europe for black models. Carmine was truly a vision and walking down the street with this stunning woman, five foot ten, regal and gorgeous, who commanded a second glance from every man we passed, made me feel somewhat unattractive in my well-worn shorts, tank top, plastic thongs, makeup-free visage, wild hair, and increasing pudginess. We must have walked thirty kilometers that day, traversing and exploring such a variety of arrondissements and sites, which included the Eiffel Tower, Pompidou Center, and Sacré Coeur, that it felt like the whirlwind package tour of Paris for Japanese vacationers. The hour was quite late when we finally realized we were exhausted, especially after walking up and down the hills of Montmartre. Carmine was a timid first-time traveler and very nervous about getting back to her hotel in the dark. Not to mention the point that she had no idea how to get there, especially from the sweet little Montmartre bistro where we had just finished our dinner. I suggested she come back “home” with me, where Tristan would certainly be by this time, and he could help direct her. This suggestion was coupled with me feeling totally neurotic and insecure, believing that the moment Tristan laid his eyes on Carmine, he would be smitten, and that standing next to her I would pale by comparison, in more ways than one. But I could not very well leave this frightened girl to find her own way, so on we went. Well, all I can say is that when we arrived, all my fears were completely and immediately allayed. Tristan was so happy to see me, he barely noticed Carmine to whom he uttered a shy, but polite greeting before he took me into his bathrobed arms and hugged and kissed me, the fashion model looking on. That was a wonderful moment. I think I learned a lesson there and the male of the species definitely gained some points in my tally.
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My day of departure came at last. Tristan and I made no plans to see each other again. Our union had been too perfect and from that high a perch, a relationship could only go down n’est-c’est pas? I preferred to treasure my liaison with Tristan as the ideal for brief encounters and to this day, not only do my nerve endings still perk up at the memory of his touch, but our affair has remained, for me, the quintessential travel romance of two ships passing in the night.