telling him grim details is
becoming so much easier.
The grin he beams me is wide and sincere. “ Bon, I thank you for
telling me. Comme c’est merveilleux —this is wonderful! You are doing so
very well, my friend.”
My lips tug up
slightly. My smile feels worn, tired and very faint, but it’s there.
“I have counseled
many who, as boys and girls as young as five, also were taught to climax,” he
tells me. “Carnal knowledge is not meant for those so young and yet, once
‘Pandora’s Box’ of sexual awareness is open, a child cannot unlearn what they
know.”
I feel like a
dishrag, damp and sweaty from heat, emotion and excruciating effort. Every
sexual secret I’m aware of has been wrung out of me. I find myself physically
and mentally beat by the end of our discussion.
Worn-out, bone
tired but somehow lighter.
Relieved.
Unburdened. Freed.
With the flourish
of a magician, he shakes out a tablecloth and pulls out three courses of
delicious French cuisine from his Dr. Who ‘Tardis’ backpack. He places every
dish with creative care. For André, artistry and eating go together.
My lips curve up
in a tired smirk and I shake my head.
French people.
I suspect the
ingestion of food is actually a sacred religious practice for the French.
Cooking is an art form and dining is an experience and a ceremony that takes
time and single-minded focus. For the French, every meal’s a special occasion
that should never, ever, be rushed.
André cocks an
eyebrow and his eyes meet mine. “Something amuses you, mon ami?”
I gesture toward
the beautifully presented lunch laid out before us. “I’m just appreciating this
whole culinary setup you’ve got going on here.”
“ Très bon! Mon
Dieu , you have worked very hard this morning. Now you are hungry, no?” he
says, while removing the cork from some no doubt costly red wine. He has ice
tea for me, a Southern drink his chief provides. I’m an alcoholic and can’t
drink, but that doesn’t stop my counselor from enjoying a glass. I have to like
him for this. Why should he act differently in front of me?
“I sure am. Thank
you, André.”
“You are most
welcome. Bon appétit!” he says with a happy, boyish grin.
My mouth waters
as I dish out Niçoise Salad with grilled tuna & potatoes.
Even though I ate
a big breakfast, I find I’m utterly starving and move on to a second helping of
food. Why is this? It’s as if my sordid secrets carried actual physical weight.
With the skeletons gone, body and mind, I feel hollow and strangely empty inside.
My gaze slides to
André. I watch as he sits comfortably, sipping wine and savoring this
beautifully presented meal. Every ounce of his being is absorbed in the sight,
smell and taste of gourmet enjoyment.
I just smile and
shake my head.
If you visit Paris
and see people eating as they walk, you can bet every penny you have that
they’re tourists. No respectable Frenchman or woman would be caught dead
engaging in such damning epicurean sacrilege.
My unconventional
counselor is overjoyed to see me eating and drinking with gusto. He assures me
I’ll feel much better after I do.
He’s right.
What a whack job.
Sometimes I wonder if André’s unexpected and offbeat behavior is a French
thing. The guy’s a crack up. He’s jumping out of his skin he’s so pleased. André’s
like an over-exuberant puppy with a box of new toys and a room full of kids to
play with.
The man’s utterly
delighted with me.
Right this minute
I feel as if I’ve earned an entire book of gold stars.
“Come," he
says cheerfully, after we eat and tuck everything away. He slips his arms into
his much lighter backpack, shrugging it on. “Have you ever heard it said, that
the most effective way to overcome temptation is to yield to it?” he asks me as
he starts walking.
To my surprise,
he takes a left turn, moving off the trail.
My lips draw down
into a frown of concentration. “No.”
“It is true.”
“OK.”
We’ve covered
becoming so much easier.
The grin he beams me is wide and sincere. “ Bon, I thank you for
telling me. Comme c’est merveilleux —this is wonderful! You are doing so
very well, my friend.”
My lips tug up
slightly. My smile feels worn, tired and very faint, but it’s there.
“I have counseled
many who, as boys and girls as young as five, also were taught to climax,” he
tells me. “Carnal knowledge is not meant for those so young and yet, once
‘Pandora’s Box’ of sexual awareness is open, a child cannot unlearn what they
know.”
I feel like a
dishrag, damp and sweaty from heat, emotion and excruciating effort. Every
sexual secret I’m aware of has been wrung out of me. I find myself physically
and mentally beat by the end of our discussion.
Worn-out, bone
tired but somehow lighter.
Relieved.
Unburdened. Freed.
With the flourish
of a magician, he shakes out a tablecloth and pulls out three courses of
delicious French cuisine from his Dr. Who ‘Tardis’ backpack. He places every
dish with creative care. For André, artistry and eating go together.
My lips curve up
in a tired smirk and I shake my head.
French people.
I suspect the
ingestion of food is actually a sacred religious practice for the French.
Cooking is an art form and dining is an experience and a ceremony that takes
time and single-minded focus. For the French, every meal’s a special occasion
that should never, ever, be rushed.
André cocks an
eyebrow and his eyes meet mine. “Something amuses you, mon ami?”
I gesture toward
the beautifully presented lunch laid out before us. “I’m just appreciating this
whole culinary setup you’ve got going on here.”
“ Très bon! Mon
Dieu , you have worked very hard this morning. Now you are hungry, no?” he
says, while removing the cork from some no doubt costly red wine. He has ice
tea for me, a Southern drink his chief provides. I’m an alcoholic and can’t
drink, but that doesn’t stop my counselor from enjoying a glass. I have to like
him for this. Why should he act differently in front of me?
“I sure am. Thank
you, André.”
“You are most
welcome. Bon appétit!” he says with a happy, boyish grin.
My mouth waters
as I dish out Niçoise Salad with grilled tuna & potatoes.
Even though I ate
a big breakfast, I find I’m utterly starving and move on to a second helping of
food. Why is this? It’s as if my sordid secrets carried actual physical weight.
With the skeletons gone, body and mind, I feel hollow and strangely empty inside.
My gaze slides to
André. I watch as he sits comfortably, sipping wine and savoring this
beautifully presented meal. Every ounce of his being is absorbed in the sight,
smell and taste of gourmet enjoyment.
I just smile and
shake my head.
If you visit Paris
and see people eating as they walk, you can bet every penny you have that
they’re tourists. No respectable Frenchman or woman would be caught dead
engaging in such damning epicurean sacrilege.
My unconventional
counselor is overjoyed to see me eating and drinking with gusto. He assures me
I’ll feel much better after I do.
He’s right.
What a whack job.
Sometimes I wonder if André’s unexpected and offbeat behavior is a French
thing. The guy’s a crack up. He’s jumping out of his skin he’s so pleased. André’s
like an over-exuberant puppy with a box of new toys and a room full of kids to
play with.
The man’s utterly
delighted with me.
Right this minute
I feel as if I’ve earned an entire book of gold stars.
“Come," he
says cheerfully, after we eat and tuck everything away. He slips his arms into
his much lighter backpack, shrugging it on. “Have you ever heard it said, that
the most effective way to overcome temptation is to yield to it?” he asks me as
he starts walking.
To my surprise,
he takes a left turn, moving off the trail.
My lips draw down
into a frown of concentration. “No.”
“It is true.”
“OK.”
We’ve covered
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