been such a seamless counterpart to my Italian boxer schnoz. Phillipe and I e-mailed for a bit, and then decided to take it to the phone. The conversation was the longest five minutes of my life. Phillipe had a tenuous grasp of the English language, and in the middle of the call he hurt his thumb so badly that the conversation went from awkward to irritated. I never spoke to him again, and we dropped whatever loose plans we had to meet.
When I decided to look Phillipe up again, I realized I had found myself in the Summer of Desperation 2007. After a very long and confusing volley about when and where we were going to meet, it was confirmed that we would get gelato together in the neighborhood. The phone call was no less irritating than the one we had years before, and so I quickly moved to be done with it, but Phillipe felt like talking. Phillipe liked to talk.
“So you are feeling better?” he asked.
I had been sick that week, so I replied, very slowly, because I remember in the conversation years prior, Phillipe commenting that I talk too fast.
“Yes… I came home… and went to… bed… early.”
“Ah, yes, last night, I rejhnjkhf kjkheug f jkh iueyh (because I have no idea what was actually said), and I put zee key in zee door. With my backpack. And I zit down on zee couch. With my backpack, my pack is for my motorbike. And I close my eyes. And zee captain. You know, zee captain of zee sheep?”
I lay there on my bed wide-eyed. Did I miss something? Zee captain of what sheep? He lives on a sheep? Phillipe gets irritated that I am obviously not following his story. He can hear it in my silence.
“You know! Zee pirate. Zee pirate with zee sheep. Zee wheel, he stands, zee wheel, he drives zee sheep.”
At this point, I am playing a silent game of charades in my head. Pirates of Penzanze! Pirates of the Caribbean! There’s a pirate on TV! You’re dreaming! There’s a pirate in your house! But Phillipe has moved on.
“And zen, I open my eyes and it’s 3:30. Zat doesn’t always happen.”
I don’t know how to respond. I don’t even know what’s been said. I grasp, “You… must… have had… a long… day.”
“Yes, a long day.”
I hoped that it was just the phone. He is a French artist with a motorcycle and a cottage in Pasadena, and even beyond the Frenchie factor, man, do I want to be in that movie. Because ever since the Donkey Prince , even before the Donkey Prince , I have been addicted to romance. Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde. Frenchie and Kristen. These were stories I not only told myself, they were ones I was determined to live. I wanted to love at such an intensity it felt as though I might die because of it. I wanted Wagner in the background and rain on command. I wanted the great big handsome star to sweep me off my feet, to look deeply into my eyes, and tell me, “Get on zee back of my motorbike, and I will take you to zee cottage in zee woods.”
After three years, and two horrible phone conversations, I show up for gelato, with my fair share of apprehension, and a little bit of hope. For the most part, Phillipe is what I expected. He is wearing a fleece because it’s October now, which is kind of cold by Los Angeles standards. But under the fleece are a button-down and some sort of cravat, which looks like a bow tie meets an ascot. I dig that. I dig funky cravats, which is why I have the French fetish in the first place. Because the accent on its own can be a little annoying.
We sit down, and Phillipe begins talking. Who knew someone with such a basic understanding of English could speak so much. Phillipe is probably strange even in his own country. He is obviously a bit of a loner and, admittedly, is “emancipated” from his family.
“Do you like it in L.A?” I ask him.
“Ummm, let me see. I think it is…,” he thinks for a bit, “a rape of human kind. Yes, a rape of human kind.”
“Oh.
When I decided to look Phillipe up again, I realized I had found myself in the Summer of Desperation 2007. After a very long and confusing volley about when and where we were going to meet, it was confirmed that we would get gelato together in the neighborhood. The phone call was no less irritating than the one we had years before, and so I quickly moved to be done with it, but Phillipe felt like talking. Phillipe liked to talk.
“So you are feeling better?” he asked.
I had been sick that week, so I replied, very slowly, because I remember in the conversation years prior, Phillipe commenting that I talk too fast.
“Yes… I came home… and went to… bed… early.”
“Ah, yes, last night, I rejhnjkhf kjkheug f jkh iueyh (because I have no idea what was actually said), and I put zee key in zee door. With my backpack. And I zit down on zee couch. With my backpack, my pack is for my motorbike. And I close my eyes. And zee captain. You know, zee captain of zee sheep?”
I lay there on my bed wide-eyed. Did I miss something? Zee captain of what sheep? He lives on a sheep? Phillipe gets irritated that I am obviously not following his story. He can hear it in my silence.
“You know! Zee pirate. Zee pirate with zee sheep. Zee wheel, he stands, zee wheel, he drives zee sheep.”
At this point, I am playing a silent game of charades in my head. Pirates of Penzanze! Pirates of the Caribbean! There’s a pirate on TV! You’re dreaming! There’s a pirate in your house! But Phillipe has moved on.
“And zen, I open my eyes and it’s 3:30. Zat doesn’t always happen.”
I don’t know how to respond. I don’t even know what’s been said. I grasp, “You… must… have had… a long… day.”
“Yes, a long day.”
I hoped that it was just the phone. He is a French artist with a motorcycle and a cottage in Pasadena, and even beyond the Frenchie factor, man, do I want to be in that movie. Because ever since the Donkey Prince , even before the Donkey Prince , I have been addicted to romance. Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde. Frenchie and Kristen. These were stories I not only told myself, they were ones I was determined to live. I wanted to love at such an intensity it felt as though I might die because of it. I wanted Wagner in the background and rain on command. I wanted the great big handsome star to sweep me off my feet, to look deeply into my eyes, and tell me, “Get on zee back of my motorbike, and I will take you to zee cottage in zee woods.”
After three years, and two horrible phone conversations, I show up for gelato, with my fair share of apprehension, and a little bit of hope. For the most part, Phillipe is what I expected. He is wearing a fleece because it’s October now, which is kind of cold by Los Angeles standards. But under the fleece are a button-down and some sort of cravat, which looks like a bow tie meets an ascot. I dig that. I dig funky cravats, which is why I have the French fetish in the first place. Because the accent on its own can be a little annoying.
We sit down, and Phillipe begins talking. Who knew someone with such a basic understanding of English could speak so much. Phillipe is probably strange even in his own country. He is obviously a bit of a loner and, admittedly, is “emancipated” from his family.
“Do you like it in L.A?” I ask him.
“Ummm, let me see. I think it is…,” he thinks for a bit, “a rape of human kind. Yes, a rape of human kind.”
“Oh.
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