Swallow
by
Ian S. Howland
It’s a Tuesday night and I'm in Paris, but I'm not sure why. I'm sitting with a naive level of comfort—perhaps due to the fact that I'm stunned by my blatant lack of prudence and responsibility—on the steps of the entrance to my hotel building which I know I cannot afford for more than tonight. The Hotel Du Collectionneur Arc de Triomphe. Perched atop a bended incline in the cobblestone road, it looks as spectacular as it sounds with an impressive appearance of elderly wisdom, dignity, and confidence. Suddenly my shock-induced calm and comfort dissolve into a tempestuous, forceful anxiety and a yearning to figure out how my present circumstances unfolded. Why did I book a one-way flight to Paris during one of my busiest school and work weeks? How will I afford my flight back? I have three unread emails from work, where I was supposed to be an hour after my plane departed out of JFK, with the subjects “Work today…”, “Where are you?”, and “Is everything OK?” I should have been at my desk advising nervous undergraduate students about their lack of financial aid options. I have no practical way of calling my bosses back. I suppose I can email them, but I won't. I have class tomorrow—I had class today—, and I need to be there for it, but I won’t. I take a drag of my cigarette and inhale as deeply as I ever have, counting slowly and assertively to five before exhaling. I'm trying to breathe in Paris through the smoke. I probably look like shit and really all I want is some weed so I can level out a little. My jean jacket has coffee and beer stains from the airport cafe and bar. The nice thing about jean jackets is that they don't really get dirty; they just acquire character—that’s the kind of logic I’ll need to go with tonight, anyway.
Why am I here? Why Paris? This is ridiculous and devastating yet so spectacular—I keep going back and forth on that last part. Looking around, the air that surrounds me is perfectly dense and temperate, I can see warm light emitted from street lamps that extend onward down the winding road to infinity. But they’re not endless lights like back in New York—I think it’s the warmth and how old and bathed in character everything is. Everything is so busy yet so calm. Everything is so beautiful and quaint, and there isn't trash everywhere. More importantly, it’s all new to me. Certain cities are, on their own, beautiful works of art, and Paris feels the rarest and most exquisite. Tonight I will be walking through Van Gogh’s ‘Over the Rhone’.
As guests of the hotel check-in and check-out, they notice me, not quite sure what to think of my curious presence. That sounds about right; I’m a piece of Brooklyn street-trash, dirty and alone, sitting with poor posture on the steps of a grand hotel in Paris, chain-smoking. Some of them make eye-contact with me and I provide them with an expressionless look—I think just to emphasize the peculiarity of it all. After I finish my cigarette, I light up another, and then I start walking. Wait—I should probably check-in, put my backpack away, and take a look at my room. I put out my cigarette after one drag then put it in the left chest pocket of my jacket. I turn around, walk into the lobby, and check-in at the front desk. The hotel staff provides impeccable customer service here, but I don't want any reminders of how much money I spent on this, so I try to maintain a state of palpable obliviousness. I reach the door to my room and suddenly I’m nervous. I quickly open it, without looking, throw my bag in after making sure I have everything important in my jacket pockets, and immediately close the door; I didn’t want to see the money I just wasted or the future I just probably devastated.
I don't have a map, and I have no cell-service and thus no means by which to direct myself. I noticed earlier the brilliant gleam of the Eiffel Tower from where I sat on the outdoor hotel steps, so I’ll just head in that direction. I start walking at a leisurely pace. I feel like keeping my head down merely out of self-disappointment, but I force myself to look around—you know, because I’m in Paris for some reason. The tower is probably about a mile and a half away, which seems like the perfect walking distance for my weary state of mind. Much to my enjoyment, it's quieter than I anticipated. There are just enough people out to make me at ease walking in an intimidating area of no familiarity to me. I can hear the soft, coupled footsteps of passers-by, harmonized with the comforting roar of taxi engines as they leave the hotel—even the superfluous car horns feel right and justified. The breeze is complementing my attire spectacularly, and I can’t help but notice how everything is so perfectly illuminated, but now I need alcohol.
I see a bar called The Freedom and Firkin across the street, but I can understand what that means so I'll have to find something else. I walk into a bar a few blocks down that is perfectly noisy, as noisy means I probably won’t be noticed. I cannot even attempt to pronounce its name; I only know that its title is very French-looking and the ambiance is excessively dark, and that’s really all I’m looking for at the moment. It just started raining, and part of me wants to walk through it, but the other part just wants to get good-and-drunk and see the blurry lights of Paris through the rain covered bar window. Rain or starry sky, though, once I’m requisitely inebriated, my feet are going to carry my beer-sodden brain and my whiskey-sodden heart around these sidewalks until the sun rises (or until I channel my inner Atlas and shrug the heavy pair off). I walk in and no one notices my entrance—perfect. I take a seat at the half-empty bar. The bartender says something to me in French I do not understand—oh yeah, I don’t speak any French whatsoever, the only exception of which is what I’m about to say to her in response. With pitiful delivery, in French, I say, “I no to speak French. I am to apologize.” She laughs, smiles, and says, “American?” After I affirm, she says, quite simply but with outstanding accuracy, “Beer?”
I have a beer—it’s darker than I’d prefer but I really could not care less, as I’m drinking not for leisure but for strict utility—and ask for a water before leaning back as far as I can to look around for a moment. My nervousness, consternation, and self-bewilderment escalate with every minute I spend trying to figure out why I would risk my job and scholarship to be in Paris for one night—or forever? Maybe I’m just losing my mind. Maybe it’s because of Eveline. I find myself drifting frequently. Through conversations with close friends, through work and school, through parties and dates, my mind just drifts and relinquishes all orientation. I just feel very not present. Without a mentally traceable source of causation, I’ll sink into a state of total disorientation during which I cannot remember what I’m doing or why I’m doing it. I’ve always done this to some extent, e.g., I’ll fail to remember whether or not I just washed my hair in the shower, so I’ll start washing it (just to be safe), and realize, while feeling the distinct sensation of shampoo being massaged onto my scalp, that I definitely already washed my hair. Sometimes it’s not the sensation that triggers my memory; sometimes I don’t realize it until I am already at work and it just hits me. But running out of shampoo too quickly is the least of my worries. Now it’s different and much more constant, perhaps because so much has changed and I’m under more stress than I’ve ever been. Graduate school is more difficult than I expected, so my traditional scholastic method of desperately trudging through each semester is in full-swing. I’m intimidated by my life—or what I want out of it, at least. More specifically, I’m intimidated by my city, I’m intimidated by my academic program and my peers, and I’m intimidated by my own ambitions. Maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe I’ve just lost my footing like I have so many times before, but now it’s as if my foot is broken and I can’t realign and I haven’t given myself the requisite time to simply let it heal. The academic and vocational consequences of this trip are excruciatingly ominous, so I stop thinking about them and steepen the angle of my beer as I pour it down the back of my throat.
I never received my water. I smile and say, in remedial English, as she seems to speak the language somewhat, “I’m sorry... water?” She’s now looking at me bemused, and it’s a specific form of bemusement quite familiar to me. Within about a second I realize that the look she’s still giving me is the look you give someone when you don’t want to answer a question because you know you’ll embarrass the questioner by answering it truthfully. She smiles and gestures toward my left hand which is currently clenching the cup of water she had already given me. Shit. I wonder how many people noticed that brilliant exchange. Perhaps a single night of floundering through Paris on my own is all my mind can afford tonight.
A young girl who looks close to my age, and whose beauty sends blissful shocks of excitement through my nervous system, stands next to me at the bar. The rain-soaked crowd with whom she entered had proceeded to the back of the bar to hang out in what I’m assuming is a private seating area. She wore the rain in her hair like a little girl wears a crown of flowers at a picnic on a sunny day. She’s ordering a bunch of drinks, leaning over the bar with her elbows and hands pressed against the countertop and only the toes of her shoes touching the floor. Her light brown hair is disheveled but with staggering confidence, and her resting facial expression makes it hard for me to believe she could ever truly be sad. She looks to her left and makes eye contact with me, and then she manages to stumble in place without having attempted to step anywhere, as one of the drinks spills over the counter and the floor. Her face looked far from drunk, so during her stumble I chose to see only the confluence of clumsiness and comeliness for which I’ve always yearned (for whatever reason). I’m feeling slightly more confident after having consumed much too quickly my first beer, so, after she cleans up her spill, I muster up a half-smile, and she does the same. Her teeth are white, her skin is soft, and her lips are drenched in red lipstick. She steps toward me to ask, in both the most pleasantly soft, mellifluous voice I’ve ever observed and American English, if I was American. I smile and say, happily, “Yeah. I’m from New York.”
She replies, “I love New York! I hope to be living there within the next year. I’m from L.A., but I’ve been here since last fall.”
“You have no idea how happy I am to hear an American voice. I speak no French, so it’s been a very intimidating experience thus far. Also, I don’t think you’re allowed to be jealous of anyone living anywhere if you live in Paris…”
“Yeah I suppose you’re right. I think any city can get old after a while, though, no? So you don’t speak any French?”
“No. I didn’t really plan this…” I’m pausing for a second because I’m struggling to figure out what to call this absurd excursion of mine. Should I even mention it? “…trip very well.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since seven this evening. I’m leaving in the afternoon, I think.”
“You’re here just for tonight?”
“Yeah,” I say with no confidence whatsoever, so I put on a half-smile, look to the bartender, and motion for another beer.
“That’s insane! No one goes to Paris for one night. Are you here for business? I hope this isn’t offensive, but you certainly don’t look like you’re here on business. Are you a musician? Should I know who you are? Why are you here?”
“You’re probably right about that first part. I’m not here on business. To be quite honest, I should be back in New York. I was supposed to be at work today. I have work and class tomorrow, both of which I can’t really afford to miss. I don’t know why I’m here. I was—I am—having a rough time, so I decided to do something both idiotic and awesome, albeit I haven’t yet convinced myself of the latter.”
She gives me a look of intrigued curiosity, which slowly wanes into the most mollifying, sweet, smile I’ve ever seen. For a short moment I feel like this terrible idea of a trip is worth it, and maybe I’ve found the “awesome” part I was looking for, but then I look down and notice the coffee and beer stains all over my jacket and the soothing transition which just began is now unraveling.
“I don’t normally wear clothes covered in beer and coffee stains. I just need you to know that.”
“Oh, that’s too bad, actually. I like when guys wear jackets covered in beer and coffee stains; it adds character.”
That sounds pretty fucking familiar. My brain halted for a moment, its action thwarted by one of those instances that feels like destiny, until I remember that I do not believe in destiny, so I hope only that the universe manages to align itself in a way such that I’m able to, like I am about forty percent of the time, respond in kind to her cunning wit.
“You are right about it being too bad; I was thinking you were kindly overlooking the beer and coffee because you thought that maybe tonight is just an aberration for me… but, now that I know you actually like the stains, your generosity is no longer impressive…”
It was not great, but it was not terrible. She smiles. Thank god. “Well, then, I suppose it’s a good thing you’re leaving tomorrow.”
I smile back. This is one of my favorite moments in a long time. Why am I sharing a conversation of flirtatious small-talk with another American at a bar in Paris on a Tuesday night? I can feel my heart pounding through my chest but in a way that relaxes me to the bone.
“I wish I could pester you with some more questions because I have several, but I have to take these drinks to the back room. My rotten friends left me behind. What’s your name?”
The best moments are always short-lived. My body has returned from excitement back to its normal state of indifference.
“Ian.”
“It was nice meeting you, Ian. I’m Emily. I know this is odd since it’s hard to imagine we’ll see each other again, but can I have your phone number? I’ll be trying to move to New York when my next term is over and I’ve graduated. It would be nice to know someone there if you’re still around.”
I provide my number and say, “It was nice meeting you, too. As strange and probably silly as this will sound, I feel a lot less weird about being here right now—in Paris, that is; not this bar—I truly appreciate it, you speaking to me, more than you know.”
“A bit weird and a bit silly for sure, but I actually think I do understand. Enjoy the rest of your night in Paris, Ian.”
“Yeah I think I might.”
I need to get out of this bar. I didn’t expect to talk to anyone tonight. I thought about the possibility, but mainly as an impractical fantasy. I feel okay, I think. I ask the bartender for another beer and a shot of whiskey. After she obliges I ask for another round of the same recipe and then start walking through Paris. I have four cigarettes left, so I better make them count. I’m inhaling with purpose with every drag. Evy is probably sleeping right now in extravagant repose. I wonder how cold it is there. Since the break-up I've felt somewhat dead. I figure if I let myself feel, I'll feel sad, so I just decide not to feel at all—emptiness is better than loneliness, right? Maybe that’s just what happens when you lose your grasp on everything. Or maybe when you lose your grasp on the “why” behind everything, or when every light you’re used to seems a little dimmer, as if each bulb lost its sense of purpose and stopped trying so hard, and it stays on solely because it is used to it. You reach that point where your routine is some sort of peculiar result of Newton’s first law of motion. Maybe that's why I'm here. Maybe I just need to feel alive.
I’m feeling alive after that conversation with Emily, but now my plan has backfired. I’m looking around at all of the people. They’re in Paris, laughing, holding hands, hugging, kissing, going out with their boyfriends and girlfriends and husbands and wives and friends and co-workers whilst I meander, alone, in Paris, on a weeknight with no agenda. Suddenly I’m crushed by a boulder of anxiety and my heartbeat takes off. I yearn to speak to someone again. Maybe I should go to another bar. I won’t. I need to be alone. Remember, Ian, you can get yourself through this. Fuck your feelings because you are choosing to have them. You’re smarter than that. You are better than every anti-stoic, impetuous imbecile in this world who can only feed off his or her own emotions in any adverse circumstance. Fuck. Who am I kidding? You let your brain lose control of itself as soon as you purchased that god damn plane ticket. You are better than no one. You have to let all of this go. Instead of letting it go I’m taking a seat on the steps of a closed shop so I can bite my fingernails to the skin and let my legs shake until they’re numb. I say to myself aloud but quietly, “Breathe, Ian.” You are better than this. Keep yourself together. Keep breathing—deeper.
I count to ten in my head as I breathe-in deeply whilst imagining that I’m lying on the roof of my old Jeep in the middle of campground in the middle of the night, staring upwards toward the sky, waiting for a meteor shower to appear. I place my hand firmly over the left side of my chest to see what my heart is doing— I need to slow it down more. I think I need help. I need someone to help me. I cannot do this on my own. I am not as smart or stoic as I ignorantly thought. Why did I come here alone? I attempt to swallow but I can’t. I hate when this happens. Dysphagia. Sometimes it’s anxiety and sometimes it’s just my health. Focus, take a deep breath, and swallow. I still can’t, which makes the anxiety worse. I don’t even need to swallow, so why is this such a big deal? If you can make this happen, Ian, you can get up. If you can get up, you can get close enough to the Eiffel Tower to be perfectly overwhelmed by it, and then you can go back to the hotel and sleep like a baby. And then what? And then you can go back to New York—your home—,try to make amends with your bosses, get your shit together for school, and keep your scholarship. Just settle yourself down, and get some of the saliva that’s in your mouth down the back of your throat. That’s the first step.
I take one last deep breath and now I’m back in the airplane row I shared with my brothers on the way to London to see our parents a few years back. My head is resting on my oldest brother’s shoulder while we share a pair of earbuds. My older brother is fast asleep under a blanket and leaning his head against the window as the setting sun descends over the Atlantic Ocean. I can feel my heartbeat slowing down. I open my eyes, one at a time, slowly, to stare at the gleam of the Paris streetlights all around me, and then I look up at the real and present sky above me, the moon sleeping contentedly atop a hazy bed of clouds that appears to be intentionally constructed exclusively for the fickle nightlight of the sky. I realize that I didn’t even notice until now that the rain had stopped or the sky had mostly cleared. I swallow. I swallow again for good measure, and then I exhale and pick myself up off the ground. Life is going to start tonight—maybe not right this second, but at some point tonight, I am starting fresh.
Sitting down and soaking in the cool air of the Paris eventide suddenly reminds me of last January when I sat atop a fire escape just below Chinatown at one in the morning with Chris and Anne, drinking tallboys and staring up at the few stars we could see, while the liveliness of lower Manhattan waned to a quelling silence, interrupted scarcely by the soft roar of a passing taxi. I remember feeling elated, as if I were in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. Suddenly everything about Paris feels right. But that feeling wasn't to last any longer than two cycles of the nearest pedestrian crosswalk signal. Certain feelings seem as if they are never meant to last. Happiness—pure happiness—isn’t meant to last. The happiness of the Chinatown fire escape night ended as soon Chris and Anne got tired. They headed to their Clinton Hill home, and I would spend the night walking toward the moon and away from my feelings. That January was inevitably crushed into nothingness by February, which lasted twenty-eight days too long. The happiness of evenings spent at my parents home, with my head resting on my older brother’s shoulder as I would fight to stay awake while the seven of us talked about anything—I didn’t want to miss a single sound from the dulcet voices of my parents and brothers. But then my parents would go to bed, my brothers and their girlfriends would go to bed, and I would leave the house and spend the night walking toward the Boston skyline and away from my feelings.
It’s time for me to get up.
I stand up and look around to notice that to the left of me I can see a winding road descending into a marvelous view of the Eiffel Tower. The view… it’s been right here all along. If only I had stood up sooner I would have seen it. My heart suddenly feels like it’s doing exactly what it’s supposed to—it’s beating with purpose. The Eiffel Tower is truly spellbinding. The Chrysler building is my favorite landmark in New York, refined and glamorous and classic, but the Eiffel Tower defines “majestic” more effectively than any phrase you’ll ever read or hear in any dictionary or on any website. Seeing it glimmer from a distance atop the Parisian metropolis is like looking at a harvest moon (or a meteor shower). I got the view I wanted, and now I feel pretty alright. I feel alive. I can feel in my cheeks a half-smile revealing itself with increasing confidence. I’m smiling not simply to show it to someone, or to convey a feeling; I’m smiling because happy. I truly amuse myself. Why did I come here ? I suppose I probably know the answer to that now, but it’s quite funny to look to myself for an explicit answer. I’m happy to be here tonight with myself in Paris.
I told myself earlier that my life is starting at some point tonight. If the rest of my life starts now, then I’m starting it at 1:30 AM on some steps in Paris, looking at the Eiffel Tower before I return, in the same direction as the face of the moon, to the exquisite hotel bed I still have yet to see. I will get the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years—and I’ll need it; I’m heading back home to Brooklyn tomorrow. Inhale. Exhale. Swallow.
