From JFK to Charles de Gaulle [pt 2/??]
anonymous
August 13 2011, 03:54:56 UTC
“Relax, Mattie, I’m going with other students from America, and the classes are all taught in English. Uhh, well, mostly in English.”
“But what are you going to do when you’re not in class? What if you get lost or injured or mugged and need to communicate? Did you think about that?”
“Quit worrying, you’re starting to sound like the old man.”
“Look, you could always practice with me, Al, you know I’m minoring in French.”
“Thanks for the offer, Mattie, but I bought this phrasebook to practice, I’ll be set.” Never mind that he was still on chapter one, but he figured he still had plenty of time to master a little French before he left for Paris. “Hey, I got a meeting with the foreign exchange group now, I’ll talk to you later, bro!”
Several weeks later, at John F. Kennedy airport, Alfred hugged his brother and father one last time, promising to call every day and take care of himself and make wise decisions and resist all sinful temptations. Then he headed to the departure gate with the other exchange students and their professor, saying goodbye to America and everything he had ever known, but excited to start a journey to someplace new.
The first week had been difficult, adjusting to the jet lag, a sudden bout of homesickness, the food, and of course, the fact that no one besides his classmates seemed to speak English if they could help it. There was only so much he could do with hand gestures, his phone’s translator app and elementary school French until the natives finally took pity on him and replied, or attempted to reply, in English of various levels of familiarity. But despite the language barrier, he surprisingly did not run into many problems getting himself understood, and in the end, Alfred concluded that his family worried way too much.
Alfred’s fortunately multi-lingual roommate turned out to be a quiet kid from Washington D.C. who kept to himself, at least until someone mentioned sculpture. Across the way, two girls doing fashion illustration and graphic design shared an apartment, and next door roomed two hipster painters that Alfred suspected were either sleeping together or practicing some sort of tribal percussion and dance late into the night. Other students rotating through the academy that semester came from Canada, the west coast, Britain and Ireland, so that nights in the student’s quarter had its own share of excitement whenever they were too tired from classes to navigate the Metro and venture into the city proper.
At the end of the second week, the students visited the Louvre, the holy land for all who called themselves artists, except perhaps the ones majoring in Alfred’s field. He dutifully went to the required exhibits with his classmates, but quickly grew bored, beginning to tally how many naked boobs he saw (fifty-eight, not counting two belonging to a rather obese 16th century satyr).
The supervising professor, noticing Alfred’s straying attention, assigned him the very important mission of finding a nearby café for their midday break. Glad for something to do, Alfred whipped out his phone, conveniently set up to take advantage of the wireless without incurring any roaming fees that his dad had already vowed not to pay, and typed “Cafés near the Louve” in the Google search bar, only to have Google return with, “Did you mean cafés near the Louvre?”
Which was what he meant to type, of course. Finger must have slipped.
Clicking on a link on the first page of results, Alfred found two that sounded reasonable and within walking distance. Having thus completed his mission, he went ahead of the group to check out the first café, finding it to look just as elegant as the photograph on the website, and despite the brisk weather, bustling with visitors and tourists wanting a cup of hot coffee or chocolate. Alfred decided to sample the offerings just to make sure the café lived up to its reputation.
From JFK to Charles de Gaulle [pt 3/??]
anonymous
August 13 2011, 03:56:53 UTC
After a few blissful minutes drooling over the pastries displayed in the glass counters, he heard someone politely clearing their throat behind him and turned around quickly. A pretty waitress asked him something that he didn’t quite catch, but Alfred nodded anyway, to which she said suivez-moi s’il vous plait. She headed towards the seating area, Alfred happily trailing after her.
She stopped, gracing him with a lovely smile, and motioned him towards a booth for two. But before he sat down, Alfred blurted out something that approximated to “Thanks, but I only want this table if you will be the one serving me” in what he hoped was grammatically correct French.
Apparently it must not have been anywhere close to correct, since the waitress burst out laughing, unable to even cover her mouth in time.
Grinning sheepishly, Alfred said, “Sorry, je ne parle francais. Uhh, parlez-vous anglais?”
“Vous êtes trop chou!” she replied, this time with a more lady-like laugh, and then continued in the most beautifully accented English he had ever heard, “Of course I will be happy to assist you, sir.” She waited for him to sit down at the booth and announced, “Would you like to try our hot chocolate today?”
Alfred could never say no to chocolate, in any of its forms, so he responded with a very enthusiastic oui, s’il vous plait. At least he knew how to say that properly.
“How about a cake or pastry to go with your hot chocolate?”
“Sure, I’d love one! Or three!” He glanced over at the pastry case on the other side of the restaurant and did his best to describe the ones he wanted to try from memory, much to the waitress’ entertainment.
She repeated his order. “So you want one flaky pastry with almonds on top, one light blue biscuit that looks like a tiny hamburger, and one slice of rectangular cake with lots of layers, is that correct?”
“Yep! Thanks!”
As soon as the waitress left with his order, Alfred pulled out his phone, flicking to the translator app, but to his dismay, he realized he had no idea what the waitress had said in French, much less spell it. Not for the first time this semester, he felt a pang of regret turning down his brother’s offer to help him with his French.
He spent the next few seconds checking his teeth in the reflection of the screen for traces of spinach that he hadn’t eaten in months but was sure to rear its ugly green head whenever he least wanted it. Wracking his brain, Alfred then tried to think of something clever and dashing to say to the waitress, but the only things that came to mind were, “So, do you come here often?” and “You look hot in that masculine waiter’s uniform.” That would never fly in Paris, the city of romance. For this Madamoiselle Waitress, he would need to turn on the best of his all-American charm.
By the time the chocolate arrived, served in a beautiful porcelain cup with a dollop of whipped cream on the side, the three assorted pastries arranged on their own plate, Alfred had resolved to do whatever it took to get (and keep) the waitress’ attention. He thanked her, putting on his most winsome smile, and then took a careful sip of the hot chocolate. His taste buds stood no chance under the onslaught of rich creaminess, and he felt himself transported to a dreamworld of sweet, sweet flavor. This was no cocoa powder mixed with hot water dispensed by university cafeterias back home, this was a slice of a heavenly chocolate bar melted over the fire of the gods, served by an angel more gorgeous than any statue of Venus that could be found in the Louvre.
Alfred decided he would never taste anything as delicious as this ever again in his life, and was happily proved wrong when he took a second sip.
“Wow!” He let out a low whistle and met the waitress’s expectant look. “This is incredible stuff. I can’t believe you serve this to just anyone!”
“Anyone who pays,” she corrected, sounding amused. “Try the pastries, too.”
From JFK to Charles de Gaulle [pt 4/??]
anonymous
August 13 2011, 03:57:52 UTC
The pastry was the perfect combination of nutty chewiness and flaky crunchiness, the brightly colored macaroon sweet but not too sweet, and he had no idea what flavored the last cake, but whatever it was, it tasted fantastic.
“How were they?” the waitress asked.
Barely remembering to swallow his food before speaking, Alfred exclaimed, “Fantastic! I love them, really, I do.”
With another brilliant smile, she leaned down and whispered, “Those are my absolute favorites to make. I am glad you decided to try them.”
Alfred stared after her as she glided away to help another patron. His cheeks felt hot, his heart was doing crazy Olympic-level leaps and jumps in his chest, and his stomach was telling the rest of his organs, to their agreement, that this was the girl, and if he let her get away, they were all going to commit mutiny against him.
Well, Alfred wasn’t going to let either of those things happen.
Even though he had to meet up with his class at the Louvre soon, he figured he could spare a few minutes to speak with Madamoiselle Waitress. When she came back with the bill, Alfred made a show of inspecting it as he pulled out an assortment of euros.
“Merci beaucoup… Angelina?”
“Oh, no, that is the café’s name, sir. My name is Marianne.”
Jumping on this opportunity, he said, “Merci, Marianne! Je suis Alfred F. Jones. Err, from America.”
Alfred held out his hand to her, and she took it, expecting a firm handshake after the American custom, but he instead squeezed her fingers lightly, placing his other hand over hers. Marianne had to smile as she drew her hand back, charmed by such sweet impulsiveness.
“I have to get back to the museum now,” he told her, “but I’d really like to see you again, Marianne, if that’s all right.”
She seemed to think about it, blue eyes sparkling with amusement, and then nodded. “I will be in the kitchens tomorrow, Alfred F. Jones, but the day after tomorrow I will be waiting tables again.”
“Great, so I can see you then?” He stood up, almost stumbling over himself as he scooted out of the booth but recovering immediately. “Goodbye, I mean, au revoir!”
Marianne watched him leave, laughing when she saw him press his face up against the window, and gave him a small wave goodbye.
“How was Angelina’s, Al?” his roommate D.C. asked. “We couldn’t get a table big enough for everyone, so we ate at the other café.”
“Oh, it was great,” Alfred replied vaguely.
“Huh. I figured it must be, since you didn’t call us until after you were heading our way.”
As D.C. didn’t seem to contribute anything else after that, Alfred went to his room and flopped onto his bed, tired after touring the Louvre, meeting Marianne, and trying to find his classmates again. Distracted by thoughts of the beautiful French waitress, he had filled several pages of his sketchbook with fanciful drawings of her, which made him laugh out loud when he realized what he was doing. Just like in the movies, he thought to himself, still grinning as he set his sketchbook aside.
Rummaging through the papers on his desk, Alfred retrieved the neglected phrasebook and started to read from where he had last stopped.
Re: From JFK to Charles de Gaulle [pt 4/??]
anonymous
August 13 2011, 12:30:44 UTC
haha, I'll admit that I had this silly smile on me the whole time I read this. There's just something so sweet and cute about this story and it's only just the beginning. Anyway, I can't wait to read more of this.
“But what are you going to do when you’re not in class? What if you get lost or injured or mugged and need to communicate? Did you think about that?”
“Quit worrying, you’re starting to sound like the old man.”
“Look, you could always practice with me, Al, you know I’m minoring in French.”
“Thanks for the offer, Mattie, but I bought this phrasebook to practice, I’ll be set.” Never mind that he was still on chapter one, but he figured he still had plenty of time to master a little French before he left for Paris. “Hey, I got a meeting with the foreign exchange group now, I’ll talk to you later, bro!”
Several weeks later, at John F. Kennedy airport, Alfred hugged his brother and father one last time, promising to call every day and take care of himself and make wise decisions and resist all sinful temptations. Then he headed to the departure gate with the other exchange students and their professor, saying goodbye to America and everything he had ever known, but excited to start a journey to someplace new.
The first week had been difficult, adjusting to the jet lag, a sudden bout of homesickness, the food, and of course, the fact that no one besides his classmates seemed to speak English if they could help it. There was only so much he could do with hand gestures, his phone’s translator app and elementary school French until the natives finally took pity on him and replied, or attempted to reply, in English of various levels of familiarity. But despite the language barrier, he surprisingly did not run into many problems getting himself understood, and in the end, Alfred concluded that his family worried way too much.
Alfred’s fortunately multi-lingual roommate turned out to be a quiet kid from Washington D.C. who kept to himself, at least until someone mentioned sculpture. Across the way, two girls doing fashion illustration and graphic design shared an apartment, and next door roomed two hipster painters that Alfred suspected were either sleeping together or practicing some sort of tribal percussion and dance late into the night. Other students rotating through the academy that semester came from Canada, the west coast, Britain and Ireland, so that nights in the student’s quarter had its own share of excitement whenever they were too tired from classes to navigate the Metro and venture into the city proper.
At the end of the second week, the students visited the Louvre, the holy land for all who called themselves artists, except perhaps the ones majoring in Alfred’s field. He dutifully went to the required exhibits with his classmates, but quickly grew bored, beginning to tally how many naked boobs he saw (fifty-eight, not counting two belonging to a rather obese 16th century satyr).
The supervising professor, noticing Alfred’s straying attention, assigned him the very important mission of finding a nearby café for their midday break. Glad for something to do, Alfred whipped out his phone, conveniently set up to take advantage of the wireless without incurring any roaming fees that his dad had already vowed not to pay, and typed “Cafés near the Louve” in the Google search bar, only to have Google return with, “Did you mean cafés near the Louvre?”
Which was what he meant to type, of course. Finger must have slipped.
Clicking on a link on the first page of results, Alfred found two that sounded reasonable and within walking distance. Having thus completed his mission, he went ahead of the group to check out the first café, finding it to look just as elegant as the photograph on the website, and despite the brisk weather, bustling with visitors and tourists wanting a cup of hot coffee or chocolate. Alfred decided to sample the offerings just to make sure the café lived up to its reputation.
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She stopped, gracing him with a lovely smile, and motioned him towards a booth for two. But before he sat down, Alfred blurted out something that approximated to “Thanks, but I only want this table if you will be the one serving me” in what he hoped was grammatically correct French.
Apparently it must not have been anywhere close to correct, since the waitress burst out laughing, unable to even cover her mouth in time.
Grinning sheepishly, Alfred said, “Sorry, je ne parle francais. Uhh, parlez-vous anglais?”
“Vous êtes trop chou!” she replied, this time with a more lady-like laugh, and then continued in the most beautifully accented English he had ever heard, “Of course I will be happy to assist you, sir.” She waited for him to sit down at the booth and announced, “Would you like to try our hot chocolate today?”
Alfred could never say no to chocolate, in any of its forms, so he responded with a very enthusiastic oui, s’il vous plait. At least he knew how to say that properly.
“How about a cake or pastry to go with your hot chocolate?”
“Sure, I’d love one! Or three!” He glanced over at the pastry case on the other side of the restaurant and did his best to describe the ones he wanted to try from memory, much to the waitress’ entertainment.
She repeated his order. “So you want one flaky pastry with almonds on top, one light blue biscuit that looks like a tiny hamburger, and one slice of rectangular cake with lots of layers, is that correct?”
“Yep! Thanks!”
As soon as the waitress left with his order, Alfred pulled out his phone, flicking to the translator app, but to his dismay, he realized he had no idea what the waitress had said in French, much less spell it. Not for the first time this semester, he felt a pang of regret turning down his brother’s offer to help him with his French.
He spent the next few seconds checking his teeth in the reflection of the screen for traces of spinach that he hadn’t eaten in months but was sure to rear its ugly green head whenever he least wanted it. Wracking his brain, Alfred then tried to think of something clever and dashing to say to the waitress, but the only things that came to mind were, “So, do you come here often?” and “You look hot in that masculine waiter’s uniform.” That would never fly in Paris, the city of romance. For this Madamoiselle Waitress, he would need to turn on the best of his all-American charm.
By the time the chocolate arrived, served in a beautiful porcelain cup with a dollop of whipped cream on the side, the three assorted pastries arranged on their own plate, Alfred had resolved to do whatever it took to get (and keep) the waitress’ attention. He thanked her, putting on his most winsome smile, and then took a careful sip of the hot chocolate. His taste buds stood no chance under the onslaught of rich creaminess, and he felt himself transported to a dreamworld of sweet, sweet flavor. This was no cocoa powder mixed with hot water dispensed by university cafeterias back home, this was a slice of a heavenly chocolate bar melted over the fire of the gods, served by an angel more gorgeous than any statue of Venus that could be found in the Louvre.
Alfred decided he would never taste anything as delicious as this ever again in his life, and was happily proved wrong when he took a second sip.
“Wow!” He let out a low whistle and met the waitress’s expectant look. “This is incredible stuff. I can’t believe you serve this to just anyone!”
“Anyone who pays,” she corrected, sounding amused. “Try the pastries, too.”
Reply
“How were they?” the waitress asked.
Barely remembering to swallow his food before speaking, Alfred exclaimed, “Fantastic! I love them, really, I do.”
With another brilliant smile, she leaned down and whispered, “Those are my absolute favorites to make. I am glad you decided to try them.”
Alfred stared after her as she glided away to help another patron. His cheeks felt hot, his heart was doing crazy Olympic-level leaps and jumps in his chest, and his stomach was telling the rest of his organs, to their agreement, that this was the girl, and if he let her get away, they were all going to commit mutiny against him.
Well, Alfred wasn’t going to let either of those things happen.
Even though he had to meet up with his class at the Louvre soon, he figured he could spare a few minutes to speak with Madamoiselle Waitress. When she came back with the bill, Alfred made a show of inspecting it as he pulled out an assortment of euros.
“Merci beaucoup… Angelina?”
“Oh, no, that is the café’s name, sir. My name is Marianne.”
Jumping on this opportunity, he said, “Merci, Marianne! Je suis Alfred F. Jones. Err, from America.”
Alfred held out his hand to her, and she took it, expecting a firm handshake after the American custom, but he instead squeezed her fingers lightly, placing his other hand over hers. Marianne had to smile as she drew her hand back, charmed by such sweet impulsiveness.
“I have to get back to the museum now,” he told her, “but I’d really like to see you again, Marianne, if that’s all right.”
She seemed to think about it, blue eyes sparkling with amusement, and then nodded. “I will be in the kitchens tomorrow, Alfred F. Jones, but the day after tomorrow I will be waiting tables again.”
“Great, so I can see you then?” He stood up, almost stumbling over himself as he scooted out of the booth but recovering immediately. “Goodbye, I mean, au revoir!”
Marianne watched him leave, laughing when she saw him press his face up against the window, and gave him a small wave goodbye.
“How was Angelina’s, Al?” his roommate D.C. asked. “We couldn’t get a table big enough for everyone, so we ate at the other café.”
“Oh, it was great,” Alfred replied vaguely.
“Huh. I figured it must be, since you didn’t call us until after you were heading our way.”
As D.C. didn’t seem to contribute anything else after that, Alfred went to his room and flopped onto his bed, tired after touring the Louvre, meeting Marianne, and trying to find his classmates again. Distracted by thoughts of the beautiful French waitress, he had filled several pages of his sketchbook with fanciful drawings of her, which made him laugh out loud when he realized what he was doing. Just like in the movies, he thought to himself, still grinning as he set his sketchbook aside.
Rummaging through the papers on his desk, Alfred retrieved the neglected phrasebook and started to read from where he had last stopped.
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Your Alfred is really sweet and I am happy that you didn't make Marianne snobby.
I am looking forward to more :3
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