Paris slowed me down enough to feel things more naturally—his touch most of all.

​

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, just as one begins to feel comfortable with the ways of a land, its food, sounds, people, language and unique smells, one is already moving on to the next location, with its own distinct 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 in Florence, Italy, where our mutual friend Carol would be arriving in a few weeks. 
   

At present, I was destined for Paris, but decided to stop in Barcelona for a few days, if only to catch a glimpse of its famed 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 together and a share room at a pension. Stephanie was a medical student on her summer holiday and not someone I would normally have gravitated toward, but her company was welcome, as I was missing my friends and still pining over Manuel.
   

We strolled the Ramblas that evening on a quest for the perfect restaurant, both festive and affordable. Once again, my Let’s Go Europe came to the rescue, as guidebooks often do when you just don’t quite have the energy to search. 
 

Barcelona truly is a handsome city, though I saw little of it on that visit. The following morning, I managed to get in a bit of wandering and took photos of some much-admired Gaudi creations. Looking up at his structures of architectural imagination, I felt like Alice on the other side of the looking glass in a world of swirling dizzying forms.
   

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 extended far beyond the delicacies for the palate. Before me were extraordinary tilework and wrought iron shelves in blue, yellow, and white and all the baked goods were arranged sumptuously in sculpted compositions behind curved glass cases. Each purchase 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 observed throughout Spain and Portugal. Could it be that this fine attention to detail gives special meaning and pleasure to life? A secret perhaps lost on Americans, who often seem too rushed to bother. 
   

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.” She will never know what a premonition that was, and what was to follow 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. 
   

I decided to stop for the afternoon in Cadaqués, a small fishing resort 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 haul it to the beach with me. I had hoped to ask at a restaurant if I could leave it for a few hours, but it was that lull between meals when most food establishments were closed. I next considered staying the night, and then weighed the financial perspective. A couchette on the train would be costly, but at least I would wake up the next day already in Paris, instead of wasting a whole day on the train. Additionally, Cadaqués was touristy and, consequently, a bit pricey and I had no one to share expenses 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. There, I changed into my bathing suit under a towel and, exhausted, used my pack as a pillow, as I collapsed beneath the hot Mediterranean sun. 
   

The beach was rocky, but the water was delicious and the view quite picturesque, which made me think it would be nice to stay here another day and chill. Once again, I wrestled with the familiar back-and-forth, the Clash’s Should I Stay or Should I Go looping in my head. 
   

There was, of course, the hike back to the bus with my pack to consider, which is what I ultimately did, Paris calling, you know, only to recognize the same bus and driver from that morning. 
   

“Has this bus been here all day?” I asked.
   

“Si, Senorita, I have been waiting for you,” he replied with a wink. 
   

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 carried only what I needed for the beach. Another one of those travel lessons.
   

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 rather than in the cabin, I watched the world go by, drenched in the golden light of the setting sun. I remember feeling exhausted from my ordeal of carrying my pack up and down the hills of Cadaqués in the heat, as well as from the intensity of the sun itself. And yet I also felt titillated at the thought of arriving in Paris, a city I had visited before, and like most who have, had been enchanted by. I wore a fresh coat of sunshine and a lazy smile, as I swayed with the movement of the train in an almost hypnotic state. 
   

Not long after crossing the border into France, we made a stop at Perpignan, a resort town on the southern coast. As the train began moving again, I looked up to see, just a few feet down the corridor, a vision so striking I must have inwardly gasped, but being so tired and numb, I doubt it showed. 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. 

 

“Bon soir,” he uttered, to which I croaked the same.

 

We began making 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. 
   

“Je suis Americaine,” as if he didn't already know. 

 

He later told 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. His name was Tristan, and he was gorgeous. Like the figures on the covers of drugstore romance novels of the time, he was tall and muscular, with broad shoulders and a slim waist, thick, wavy black hair and blue eyes set in a sculptured face that any Renaissance artist would have begged to capture. And then there was that smile, with dimples and a slightly roguish slant to the eyebrows above 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 effortlessly, and when the train made a longer-than-usual stop at one town, Tristan ran out to fetch refreshments. Had this been a train station in the U.S., he might have returned with two Cokes—but this was France, and Tristan was the supreme wooer. He came back with a bottle of wine, plastic wine glasses. and mineral water. As if I weren’t already intoxicated by Tristan himself, 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.
   

At some point we made the discovery that I had misread my ticket and was, in fact, in the wrong cabin, an error I have never regretted. Since no one else appeared to be using it, we pulled out the couchette berths and made ourselves more comfortable.
   

In the midst of our heated encounter, there was a knock on the door. A conductor stood there with a woman who had just boarded, and apparently, this was her assigned 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, resolving the situation 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 Tristan did not wish to wait. He wanted to make love to me that very night on the train. 
   

Can you blame him? 
   

And though I was greatly enjoying the kissing and fondling that we had been engaging in, I pushed back at his urgings to take things further. 
   

“We should sleep now, “ I breathlessly uttered, perhaps not too convincingly.
   

And so, I carefully removed myself from his arms and climbed up onto the other small single bed above. However, it wasn't long before we somehow found one another again, continuing our fire and mutual discovery of each other’s anatomies. This was inevitable, as Tristan possessed true wizardry in the art of touch, and even on a train, I felt every nerve ending respond. Resistance, as they say, was futile. Though I was completely aroused by Tristan and knew we were destined 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 mostly clothed, which provided just enough of a barrier for me to hold my ground, though Tristan somehow found his way, with obviously practiced ease, to my flesh. 

 

Finally, Tristan spoke a few simple words, like those in a fairy tale that reveal a hidden treasure. A phrase that opened a view to me that I have since tried to embrace as a 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 lifting my skirt, and half spoke, half whispered.
   

“Take your pleasure:” 
   

It was a revelation, like a cloud lifting. What, after all, was I protecting? My virginity? My reputation? The train’s upholstery? How ridiculous! This man was offering me exactly what he said—pleasure. I had lived long enough to know that life is filled with difficulty, trouble, tragedy, hardship, stress, and when pleasure is offered freely, one must be mad to refuse it. Seize it, relish it, embrace it, as I at that moment embraced this beautiful man and this unexpected gift on a night train to Paris, the most romantic city in the world.
   

Upon arrival at the Gare de Lyon, we found a taxi, and Tristan simply gave the driver his address, just like that! Voilà! So, what is so remarkable about that? Nothing, really, except that, as the kind of traveler I was, the most stressful part of arriving anywhere was getting my bearings, switching languages, and finding accommodation. I was spared all that with a few words uttered to a taxi driver by a white knight. 
   

Tristan's flat was tiny and reminded me of my own East Village apartment in New York City. The bed sat atop a loft, reached by a small ladder, in a single room that served as everything else. It was a little love nest, and what followed were ten days of absolute bliss. 
   

I was in domestic heaven, a welcome change from pensions and cheap hotels with questionable plumbing and unpleasant smells. Tristan was the perfect lover, not promised to me, as he made clear, but this time was for us. He made me feel as though I were the only woman in the world, and his own little tarte aux pommes. From the beginning, we both understood the limitations of our liaison. Tristan had other women in his life, and I was traveling onward to meet friends in Italy. And yet, those very boundaries liberated us. We gave generously and openly to one another. 
   

Tristan possessed unmistakable confidence as a man, and I'm not simply referring to the fact that he was classically handsome. He knew who he was and carried a maturity I have encountered in few men, regardless of age. Neither of us brought baggage into our brief interlude. This was simply about the joy of two souls, fiercely drawn to one another on many levels, whose paths had, quite fortunately, crossed. Had the timing and circumstances been different, it is not impossible to imagine that we may have continued… 
   

Tristan worked as a concierge at a hotel during the day, which was just perfect. Each morning we would walk to the Rue Mouffetard and have our breakfast: café with croissants and baked goodies. Those ten days added inches to my thighs, but it was well worth it. Tristan would stuff pastries into my mouth and lick away the cream that 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 into a fervent, lingering embrace, as though he were departing for six months to climb Mount Everest. The day would then be mine.
   

Oddly enough, I did not rush off museums and cathedrals. Instead, I spent my time shopping for our dinner, blending in with the locals as I moved from shop to shop, perusing cheeses, breads, fresh fruits, and vegetables. My days were relaxed, strolling through the streets of the Fifth Arrondissement, doing laundry, lounging in the flat, and listening to the stereo while I prepared the salad. After two months of travel, I found myself welcoming this brief taste of domesticity. My sensual awareness was awakened. I felt the breeze in my hair, the sun on my face.
   

When Tristan returned from work, he would make love to me on the couch before we had even opened the wine. After dinner we would wander out to cafés, or go to the cinema, or wherever the night led us. Often, we would eat crêpes from street vendors, one or two francs apiece. My favorite was maron, chestnut. 
   

One night, we took a tourist boat on the Seine, surrounded mostly by Americans and Brits. The tour, conducted in English, pointed out the famous landmarks along the river, all architectural treasures, but much of it was lost on me. Tristan and I were making out feverishly in the dimmer rear of the boat, which mildly obscured his hands roaming freely beneath my clothes. Rendered helpless, I could offer no protest against Tristan’s caresses. Another evening was spent at the cinéma, though I remember very little of the film. When we returned to the flat, we raced up the ladder to the boudoir, where the passion would begin again. This man possessed more ardor than I had ever imagined, and commanded irresistibly gifted hands that electrified my sexual core like a magnet to iron.    
   

During my sojourn with Tristan, he had a few consecutive days off from the hotel and planned a short trip to Bretagne to visit his nine-year-old son, the progeny of an early marriage that had lasted only one year. Tristan intended to buy the boy a bicycle for his birthday. To accomplish this mission, we left early in the morning, as Tristan wanted to stop at a car exhibition before shopping for the bike. To be quite frank, this would not have been my first choice for how to spend some of my precious time in Paris, but it was Tristan’s day off, and if I wanted to spend that time with my lover, hey, I could get into looking at cars. 
   

On the way, we passed Notre Dame, where I pulled out my camera and turned into the obvious tourist. I have some fabulous photos of Tristan juxtaposed against the cathedral’s famous gargoyles—beauty and the beasts. 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 finally left the less-than-exciting display of past and future automobiles, we crossed the Pont Neuf to the Right Bank to shop for the gift. Being quite petite, I was the perfect stand-in for a child, testing various bicycles for size and comfort. With my assistance, Tristan made his choice, and we left the shop with the bike fully assembled. 
   

The afternoon proceeded with me riding and Tristan walking either beside me, or some paces behind. I think I preferred that day to any other I have ever spent in Paris. The weather was perfect—luminous white puffs of clouds scattered in a brilliant 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 more animated, talkative energy. Sometimes I would ride far ahead, then circle back, so that day encompassed both the exhilarating rush of freedom and sheer joy I derive from riding a bicycle, as well as the pleasure of sharing thoughts, impressions, and feelings with someone I had come to feel so connected to in such a 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 glancing back over my shoulder each time he called my name. What a lovely sound that was! Our ramblings took us past a variety of Parisian landmarks and I felt like Audrey Hepburn in a 1950s movie with a French Gregory Peck in tow.
   

While in St. Germain, Tristan decided to rely on my keen sense of fashion to help him shop for 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 and still look good, so my opinion was actually worthless, but I didn’t let on. A selection was made, but not before I insisted Tristan model several pairs 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 him for his birthday. I hope he wore it to its limp and tattered death and thought of me with every buckling and unbuckling. 
   

The next morning, Tristan got up before me to run a few errands before departing for his trip to Bretagne. When he returned, I roused myself, threw on a short cotton T-shirt dress, and climbed down the ladder from the loft to join him for coffee. 
   

Just before leaving for the train, Tristan took me into his arms to kiss me goodbye. One hand inevitably wandered 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, 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 an hour before, this man had lain beside my naked body, but it was the absence of “underpairs” beneath my dress that reignited his desire. What followed was not the lengthiest lovemaking 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). 
   

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 time to discover more of Tristan's soul by exploring his bookshelves. They 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, introspective, and emotionally attuned. I had been too long conditioned to believe that a man who looked like a Greek god would lack depth, or worse, be insufferable. Tristan challenged that notion entirely. It was he who first planted the seed in me to travel to Asia. He had to journeyed through India and was full of descriptive stories. Some of the books in his collection echoed his interest in the East. 
   

One afternoon, I met my New York friend Kathleen at La Piscine, an outdoor swimming pool built atop a platform along the Seine. The entrance fee included a small locker for changing and access to the showers. I remember thinking that a typical American would never fit into those lockers. But there was something else about the Parisians in that setting that felt distinctly different from Americans in a similar scene. At first, I could not place it, until I finally realized it was the children. They were so well-behaved. 
   

Two mornings later, Tristan returned early while I was still in bed. Even though I heard him come in, I pretended to be asleep so I could enjoy a few more moments of stillness and observe my lover through the slats in the loft without him knowing. He moved quietly, careful not to wake me, placing his bag softly onto the floor, glancing at his mail, and taking a shower. Then he came soundlessly up the stairs like a cat, slipped into bed beside me, and was mine, as my body melted into his transcendent kisses and strokes. 
   

That afternoon was spent 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, having heard there was a demand in Europe for Black models. Carmine was truly a vision, and walking beside this stunning woman, five foot ten, regal and striking, drawing a second glance from every man we passed, made me feel somewhat unattractive in my well-worn shorts, tank top, plastic thongs, makeup-free face, wild hair, and increasing pudginess. 
   

We must have walked twenty-five kilometers that day, traversing a variety of arrondissements and sites, including the Eiffel Tower, the Pompidou Center, and Sacré Coeur, until it felt like a whirlwind package tour of Paris. The hour was quite late when we finished dinner at a small bistro, and realized we were exhausted, especially after capping our day walking up and down the hills of Montmartre. 
   

Carmine, a timid first-time traveler, was very nervous about finding her way back to her hotel in the dark, especially since she had no real sense of direction from where we were. I suggested she come back “home” with me, where Tristan would surely be by this time, and he could help guide her. This suggestion was coupled with me feeling neurotic and insecure, imagining that the moment Tristan laid eyes on Carmine, he might be captivated, and that I would pale beside her, in more ways than one. But I could not very well leave this frightened girl to find her own way, so on we went. 
   

When we arrived, all my fears dissolved instantly. Tristan was so happy to see me that he barely noticed Carmine, offering her only a polite, almost shy greeting before he gathered me into his bath-robed arms, hugging and kissing me, as the fashion model looked 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.
   

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 descend, n’est-ce pas? I preferred to treasure my liaison with Tristan as the ideal for brief encounters. 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.