I met Charlotte when I was 22, when she was visiting Berkeley and dating a guy I knew. She was a street performer who spit fire for francs, and in America, dollars. This involved putting some kind of protective agent into her mouth, followed by a flammable liquid, which she then spit out at her torch, producing a fireball. We became friends, and she invited me to visit her someday. The following year, I did.

She lived in the town of Grenoble, situated in the French Alps near Provence. I took the high-speed train there from Paris, meeting her at the station an hour after my arrival. Once there, we were picked up by an English band she knew that was playing in town. I was quite relieved to speak my language again. We were taken to her friend’s flat, then after a short rest, went to the club to help the band load their equipment. At the rear of the club, there was a chamber that led into an old dungeon. When I say old, I mean, medieval. Or, so we were told. The ceilings certainly were low enough.

I brought my little 35mm camera with me to Europe and thought it would be cool to take black and white photos. I regret that now, but some of them did turn out well. Charlotte took that picture of me in the kitchen of her small flat in the middle of the city. I stayed with her there for the week, where she showed me how to make espresso on the stove, adding sweet shelf-stable milk to it when it was done. She also made a pot of white rice one day for lunch and poured yellow mustard into it, which at first horrified me, then I discovered it wasn’t so bad. What was bad was something called “hearts of palm” from a can. Have never eaten it again since.

As I wrote in my journal, I was almost always dirty, sleepy, and hungry. I had very little money, and tried to be frugal with it. I also tried to practice my French, but I was so naturally shy that trying to be extroverted in another language was almost impossible. I did still manage to enter the boulangerie in the morning and say very softly “une baguette s’il vous plait” and hand over my francs. Then I would take my bread back to Charlotte’s and have it with butter and jam. Yes, it was the best baguette I had ever eaten.

After a week, we were taken into the country to stay with Charlotte’s family, who lived in a 19th century farmhouse. None of them spoke much English at all. They bred golden Labrador retrievers, so the house was filled with dogs. I slept in an antique sleigh bed in a tiny, spooky upstairs room. In the morning, I got up and threw open the windows to reveal this vista.

That picture doesn’t do it much justice. It was like something from a fairy tale. I look so fondly back upon my first trip to France, forgetting the poverty and taste of danger, and remembering the adventure and the people I met. Learning to kiss everyone twice upon introduction. I rather liked that custom.