Charlotte.

Charlotte said we were going to the squat to meet some of her friends. Where I came from, a squat was a dark, abandoned building full of rats and garbage and junkies, with boards over the windows. In Grenoble, a squat was a crappy house in a bad neighborhood, but it had running water, electricity, and a working telephone. I am still not sure how that worked, something to do with the government taking care of the poor. Weird, right?

We went to the squat for dinner a couple times during my stay. Everyone who lived there was very friendly, but none could really speak to me. I think I was some kind of novelty. As we all sat around the kitchen table, eating, drinking wine, everyone but me smoking, I was forced to listen listen listen to their French, and magically, a little of it began to make sense. They would of course not slow down for me, unless asked to repetez. I tried to participate — my French was poor but I was getting by alright. It was far easier for me to read it than anything else. Actually speaking it was a challenge, and most difficile was to understand it when spoken. It was nice to feel like had I stayed another couple months, a little light bulb might have turned on at some point.

One of the boys, sitting near me, drew a picture during one of the dinners and gave it to me. He explained that the petite sphere “c’est vous“, pointing at me with a smile. It was an incredibly sweet little gesture, his effort to communicate with me through symbols. I saved the picture in my journal.

I sometimes still feel this way, that I do not fit in, that I am trying to understand but it’s going over my head. It’s a lonely feeling. But I am a lot more confident than I once was. I know that if I went to France today, and found myself at another dinner party, I wouldn’t just sit quietly and try to disappear.

Near the end of my trip to France, I decided to take a day trip to Avignon. I’m not sure why, maybe because it was on the train line from Grenoble and I had enough money for the ticket. I brought ten francs with me — about three dollars. I am still amazed that I traveled around Europe back then as dirt poor as I was. I was hungry all the time, though, and foolishly spent my money on coffee, usually. I also learned that in Avignon, it cost two francs to use the toilet. So I had eight francs.

It was a hot day, and I sat in the square of the Palais du Papes, too broke to actually get into the palace and see what was inside. So I walked around the city, over the little bridges, up and down alleys like canyons, five yards wide. I took a few pictures. Then I rode the slow local train back to Grenoble, hoping the batteries in my cassette player wouldn’t die on the way. Probably listening to Supergrass.

A couple of days later, I returned to Paris, where there was a five-hour layover before my train to London. There was no place to store my huge backpack, which by this point was hurting my shoulders, so I had no choice but to haul it around with me as I wandered the wide boulevards, in the rain. I bought a bottle of bordeaux in a supermarche, then I found a place to sit and write, in an ugly little park on la Rue de LaFayette.