Three Years Ago, Part 3

Back to the mixed CD. Apparently the cat sitter had made it not only to "give me a clue" but to give him an opening. As we finished dessert he said, "oh, before I leave let's just listen to this one song I want you to hear." And I agreed, because I was awfully naive. He puts in the CD and starts playing a song, only it's not the one he wanted me to hear. Rather than skipping ahead, he decides we'll listen to this one too, while sitting on recliners across the room from each other. When the song comes on he suggests that we dance.

(Note: Since we are both swing dancers asking me to dance wasn't that strange of a request)

So we dance. And dance. And dance. Because the song is eight minutes long. Which is pretty long to be swaying with someone in your dark living room, alone, without speaking. And the whole time the heart palpitations and digestive issues the cat sitter gives me are going crazy and I'm wondering if he's gonna make it worth my while. (Ya know, wink wink). And, well, he did.

And that, Internet, was the beginning of a beautiful friendship relationship marriage.

Three Years Ago, Part 2

Now where were we? Ah yes, three years and three weeks ago I decided to call my cat sitter when I knew he would be unable to reach his phone because mysteriously, talking to him wreaked havoc on my digestive system. However, after I returned from my fucking awesome swing dance camp, it occurred to me that I must do something to thank my cat sitter for cat sitting. And, being the well-mannered Southern lady that I am, I thought a home-cooked dinner was the best thanks. I assure you this decision was completely based on etiquette and had nothing at all to do with the exciting heart palpitations the cat sitter's deodorant gave me.

Seeing how the cat sitter was a vegetarian (at the time), I had to do extensive research on some tasty vegetarian meals. The cat sitter, being a Southern gentleman himself knew to offer to bring something and I suggested dessert. On the night we had decided, the cat sitter showed up just on time. I greeted him at the door and then we went back to the kitchen to continue stirring my homemade tomato sauce. The cat sitter showed me the dessert he had brought (yummy cake from Whole Foods) I glanced down and noticed THE CAT SITTER WAS WEARING HIS DRESS SHOES! Black, shiny shoes! For a two-person dinner at home! And then, he pulled something out of a bag. A CD. For me. A CD that he had mixed, for me.

MUSICAL INTERLUDE: "Sometimes when someone has a crush on you, they make you a mixed tape, to give you a clue."

Internet, even though I had not yet seen Avenue Q, I knew the words of this song to be the truth. And I began to be convinced that the physiological symptoms that hounded me when the cat sitter was around were evidence of an emotional THING I had for the cat sitter. I confess that this thought, the thought of a THING had crossed my mind previously. But now I was sure.

Dinner went well. We moved to the living room to watch a movie, during which we intermittently stared at each other, then back to the dining room for dessert. At this point it was at least midnight. And you know what midnight means, right?

It means it's no longer exactly three years ago. So I can stop here, for now, in the name of laziness suspense.

The Obligatory Post

I became a patriot on September 13, 2001. The darkness and fear that had descended on our study abroad group two days earlier had been somewhat alleviated by the rigors of coursework and the beauty of Paris. The sadness and shock were still present and were enhanced every time we looked at a newsstand or saw the sign that was placed in so many shop windows. "Nous sommes tous Americains".

We are all Americans. Just like we were all Berliners when that city needed the world the most.

On the 13th a few of us decided to go down to the Champs Elysees where there was a memorial in front of the American Embassy. As we approached the line I noticed an old French man in his World War II hat, sitting on a park bench, weeping. In front of the embassy were hundreds of letters, flowers, and "I Love NY" t-shirts. To many, precious souvenirs of a rare trip across the Atlantic. And then I felt a tap on my shoulder. A little lady, probably around 75 years old, began to speak to me in hesitant English. "America saved us. We.....comment dire 'devoir'?" Devoir, when conjugated, means must. As a noun it implies duty. I assured her I could understand French and she began to tell me how she was young during WWII, how America had defended Western Europe from tyranny. And how she hoped and prayed her country would be able to pay back some of that debt now.

I had never in my life realized that anyone viewed America in this way. Americans in France were fat, obnoxious, and had a strange belief that yelling in English would help the French understand them better. We were a pompous people who insisted the world do it our way. And yet, there was still a memory that we did some good. That our country had sacrificed to help rid the world of the evil of the Third Reich. And though, even then it seemed inevitable that things would change and politicians would disagree and that citizens would protest, for that moment the world remembered.

For the first time I felt overwhelmingly proud to be an American.