I missed it. Ah, but my French is not so bad after all. Or maybe that's just my charm. How egoist of me to say. Sometimes I disgust myself. Here I am though, I just have to wait an hour. I should've brought a book rather than a journal. I don't know how I'll be able to write for so long. The sun was out when I arrived at Robinson station via le RER. But that was an hour ago. I'm in the middle again. Between two hours. One hour to be spent writing, the other spent breaking sweat and pulling hair and grinding teeth at the impossibility of my situation; my mission: to find Marie's university. So easy it looked on paper. A simple right and a left into gaping gates wide open. How could I not know by now? Things are never so easy. Especially not in France, where streets are anything but a simple left or right. It's a descent or an ascent, a slight turn or fork, and when I build up the anxious courage to ask some poor, undeserving soul, "Ou est l'universite?" or "Il y a une universite NEAR?" it's a queer, then consoling look I receive . Then a "Que universite?" because, of course, there's more than one. "Il y a quatre des universites," the nice man on the motorcycle informs me. "Ah." Merde. But the old lady with the kids pointed me this way. It's been thirty minutes now of headless chicken-running, up and down this rue and that rue of orange wet autumn leaves fallen, soaked from yesterday's rain and still not dry. Curse these streets so pretty. I can't even stop to enjoy them. I'm supposed to be meeting Marie's friend right now and I have no idea where he and this phantom universite are. I follow the motorcycle man's honest guess down a hill and up over and across the train tracks. Fuck! Once more. I'm at another RER stop entirely. What is this luck? There's nothing more to do now except hump my way back to Robinson. But I don't even know where that is exactly. Back towards the sun I run, sinking low behind the clouds now. It's the only way I know. Across a street and up through a park that looks inviting in such anxiety. There is nothing else to do.
But what is that old ringing proverb? Ah yes, "Only when you are truly lost will you find your way." Or at least I think that's it anyways. And as I follow the path through the park, what's this to the right? Through the trees and over a small bridge the scent of higher learning catches my eye. A reminiscent thing from back in Santa Cruz. I follow some young French belle across the bridge towards big concrete buildings and the sound of French youths talking fast. Et c'est ca. I am here. A building close says, "Bat H." "Ou est le Bat B?" I ask a student as I pass. "La," and I follow his finger. Bat B. And the cafe. But I am too late. Ten minutes too late. And there is no Guive to be found. Fuck! Yet again. I don't want to do that again. So I turn to a girl with a kind face. "Excusez-moi, Il y a une telephone public?" She smiles to her friend, then back at me, but shakes her head sorry, "Non." Ah. "Parlez-vous anglais?" I ask. "A leetle." "Oh! Do you think I could borrow your phone? Please?"
And after a moment's pause I'm talking to Guive. "You're late," he says. I know, but I'm here now so he tells me to wait an hour, and he'll be there with my pots. I can do that. These fair angels of France will occupy my time when my pencil doesn't. They speak and it's casually pretty, and their laughter makes me smile inside and out even though I haven't the faintest clue what's so funny. God, they're beautiful (like Minka Kelly, remember her).
