Mr. Red Shirt

I guess what made it possible for Red Shirt to last so long was that it crumples into a handy little ball. And no, it's not one of those God-awful crumple up shirts. It's made of something ultra-synthetic and is a very simple shirt (just red), so it folds up to about the same size as a hankerchief. I suppose that each time I went through my clothes (all three times since 1998), I said to myself, "Ach, might as well keep it. It's so tiny and you'll never know when you'll need it again. Plus, it's red. Red goes well with black. And you have a lot of black"

And I'm glad. I think Red Shirt brings me luck. Here's why.

Exhibit A: I went across the street today to send a fax. My street is a one-way, one-lane street, rather narrow in size. Steaming down the street with perhaps three inches of leeway on each side was a big, white truck. It was coming absurdly fast for a truck of its grandeur on a street so narrow. As I watched it roar down the street, I stepped off the sidewalk and waited to cross between two parked cars. But then, rather abruptly, the truck stopped right in front of me. The driver looked at me, bowed, and made a sweeping motion with his arm as if to say, "After you, my lady." I stopped traffic!

Exhibit B: BHV is a huge store in the middle of Paris. Downstairs is the Home Depot-like section - lighting fixtures, drills, toilet seats, you name it. Inside is an absolute zoo; it's basically all the goods of Home Depot squeezed into the basement of a Parisian department store. I love BHV, I hate the downstairs. I avoid it when I can because I always get so horribly lost inside. But today, I waltzed in, found what I needed within two minutes, and snagged myself some sexy new pots for Alfred and Jezebel (my plants). Basquiat is going to have to hang on for awhile. He's gotten so big that I'm going to need to buy the super delux pot for him next go around. I hope I can find one for him that will be just as sexy. Still, I finally had a pleasant downstairs BHV experience.

Exhibit C: I have a hard time talking to strangers in France. I think it's purely because of the language barrier: I'm self-concious about my accent and often get flustered if I make even the smallest of mistakes. Today, after BHV, I got on the 96 bus to head home. Clumsily, I made my way to the center of the bus to find a place where I knew I could set down my bulky (and heavy) pots. As I did this, a young man - probably exactly my age - dressed semi-hippie-ly and holding his guitar case said, "Oh...you've got a thing. Wait. No, yeah, you do. A thing in your nose."

"Yeah, I do," I said, preparing to get in Flustered Mode (usually involves avoiding eye contact and doing everything I can to keep from blushing).

"Does it hurt?"

"Well, I've had it for seven years now, so I should hope it doesn't. I think I would have taken it out by now, honestly," I say, avoiding eye contact with those other passengers who have started listening to our conversation (and of course, I feel like my accent is reverberating down the bus' corridor alongside it).

"Oh my God, and that crazy one in your ear. Whoa! That must have hurt!"

He was a very exhuberant, charismatic type, not necessarily picking up on me so much as trying to pass the time on the bus in some way. His more trendy, more shy friend was looming over my left shoulder, but wasn't participating in the conversation. The Semi Hippie was fully aware of the old lady across from him who was listening in rather obviously, and he even tried to include her in the conversation. We talked about the piercings a bit more and he said, "Where are you from, with your petit accent?"

"I'm American."
"Oh!!! You're from...Pennsylvania?"
"No"
"Virginia"
"No"
"Massachusettes."
"No. Are you going to guess all 50?"
"Ha! I don't know all 50! Hm...no, wait. New York."
"No. I'm from Detroit" (not true, but I tell them that to avoid the explanations)
"Oh yeah! Detroit! Alright! And you're in France to...study."
"Yeah."
"To study what? Literature?"
"No."
"Biology?"
"No."
"Um..." he taps his thumbs on his guitar case as he thinks, "Political science?"
"No."
"Psychology?" his friend chips in.
"No."
"Art. No...no...not art. No, yeah, art! Painting!" Semi Hippie exlaims.
"No."
"Oh, wait, I know! I know!" The friend cuts in again, "Math!"
"No!" I laugh back, forgetting all about Fluster Mode.

At this point I notice that the entire bus is in on the guessing game. I guess we had been the only ones talking. But somehow I had made it over my flustered stage and was actually really enjoying this semi whacko convo with the Semi Hippie and his softspoken friend.

After running through practically every field, I finally give them a hint. "Think about the fact that I'm in France, and I'm not speaking my own language. But that apparently I'm interested in studying in another language, maybe...and that - "

"Linguistics! I got it! Linguistics!" Semi Hippie says as his eyes light up.
"Yep."
"Ha, did you hear that? I got it! Yes!" he declares triumphantly to his friend, who had spaced out for a second.
"Shit! What was it? I didn't hear."
"Linguistics"
"Oh...yeah. Oh, I can see it. Yeah."
"So you must speak a lot of languages, then, huh?" Semi Hippie asks.
"Well, I speak a few. Or at least I study a few."
"What do you study? German?"
"No."
"Japanese. You totally study Japanese."
"No."
"Russian?"
and so on and so on and so on. They got off the bus three stops before I did. The bus really did feel hollow and empty after their good-natured departure. But for some reason, that bus ride totally made my day. It was just friendly and silly and cute and kind. I guess it was just another thing that made me realize that I shouldn't let my accent keep me from talking to strangers. I love doing that in the States, I don't see why I wouldn't do it here.

Thanks, Red Shirt, for another great lesson in life.

(And plus, my plants look badass in their new pots. I'm serious. I hope my babies don't miss us too much when we're gone. One of Basquiat's leaves got a little burnt by the scorching-hot sun, and I'm a little worried for him. He's a tough cookie though, I'm sure he'll make it. And Alfred looks like such a stud in his new blue pot! Really, he does.)