I learned some expensive and demoralizing lessons in Europe myself. Not a great place for young American (plus Jewish) women in 1979-80. Maybe I will write about this one day.
Wow, you slipped in that stolen book with such slight of hand and words that it was almost forgotten by the end. I would have lost a $50 bet that Rona Maynard once stole something in broad daylight!
Heavens to Betsy, Rona! I won't disclose my long list of poached items but the very first thing I thought I stole was Lotto 649 ticket. It was the kind of ticket where you had to choose your numbers and then pay to play in the next lottery. I didn't realize that part and had snuck a blank ticket up the front of my t-shirt at Becker's when my aunt busted me. My grandmother started her common prayers that I wouldn't become a career petty thief (but then we went scrumping for apples for her famous apple sauce at a roadside orchard in Simcoe).
I had such an innocent time when I was backpacking around France, although not of my own volition. The first night I arrived in Paris, I went to a hotel recommended in the old Europe on However Many Dollars a Day guide as cheap and safe. I had just turned twenty-two.
The woman behind the desk told me they only had one room left — the catch being that I would have to share it with another Canadian backpacker, Johanne from Quebec. Would I like to meet her?
Johanne and I clicked right away. Not only did we share the room, we ended up travelling around France together for a month. My French wasn’t great but her English was virtually non-existent, so I learned more French during that month than I had in all my years at school.
It turned out that Johanne was engaged, and she told me this trip was her last solo adventure. We both wanted to see museums and galleries, eat French food — and I have another story about that. But Johanne wasn’t interested in meeting men, which wasn’t entirely absent from my To Do list.
She was also beautiful. If Johanne had been interested in men, there would have been a surplus. A landslide. One time we were out for a drink with two young men from the Canadian embassy, and I was quite happy with mine. But at a certain point, Johanne got bored and said in we had to leave. She stood up, beckoning me to the door.
Seeing my face afterwards, she said, rough translation: “But you should have told me! I would have arranged everything!”
I think she was two years older than I was. Maybe three.
However, there was also this. Whenever men threw out lewd comments in the street, kissed at us, even tried to grab us, Johanne let loose a stream of joual—Quebecois slang, technically French, but French from the 16th century.
The men were entirely thrown. They thought they should have understood what she was saying and didn’t, and backed off looking confused and overmatched. Which they were.
It was a wonderful trip—and my mother was terrified the entire time. If only she had known.
Oh, the stories mothers do not know! This one could have ends very differently, if not for Johanne’s orientation. All those chauds lapins flummoxed by her joual! Great word picture.
Teen years are tough - but to spend part of it on an adventure in Paris is sooo much more enjoyable! What a wonderful read, Rona - I loved every word!!
I can see in your passport photo that you have your own "rabbit agenda" and isn't it okay for a girl to have?! I had one, too. Oh, the movie star fantasies were pretty steamy. And those little boys you babysat. I sat two elementary school lotharios one summer. Great story.
I'm glad that it was pickpocketing and not something more dangerous and traumatizing. The "good old" bad old days. Don't miss what I went through as a teen, but I do appreciate writing and reading stories of what it was like for us. xo
That's interesting. I was going to continue my comment, saying that it's comforting to know that most of us didn't survive adolescence unscathed. The conversations I've had in later years blew my inaccurate perceptions out of the water. I found out that most of us were miserable and had some pretty awful stories to report! xo
Great essay- Ah - how much time do you have? I don't even know how to begin. The boom I want to mention here is not the story of the French lawyer in my memoir (which took me 40 years to see in print—That was Paris 1976 on Junior year Abroad—But a story which predates this—in Nice, France, 2 years earlier, where i had gone to take flute masterclasses from some very fancy French flutists. I appealed to one of them—he called me the Belle de Nice and pretended to take my arm and lead me back out the door when I entered. He praised my playing, made me feel valued, said I used to play like a girl and now was learning to play like a woman. I knew it was BS but I was smitten. Then one day he suggested a swim in the late afternoon, when the class was over.. I squirmed as I got into his convertible as other students watched, and I wanted to wear a sign that said "this is not what it looks like."
But guess what ? It was exactly what it looked like. We dove into the sea as the low sun sparkled on the azure waves, the whole time he ogled and said things like “I want to take you on those rocks” I tried to explain that it wasn’t my style, that I took things seriously. No matter.. He took me by the hand to the back of my villa when the key wasn’t in its hiding place, leaned my up against the cold stone wall and in minutes was inside me. It was a classic Me Too, but not a rape, (which is how some interpreted this part of my book) But I did feel so ashamed and hurt. Believe it or not, I returned to Paris 2 years later to study with this guy, and almost let it happen again. But I gained some wisdom and strength and he stopped trying.
The esteemed teacher and the student. Yes, classic Me Too. And you went back to him. This is a sadder story than mine, which is funnier than I realized at the time.
Just out of sight, out of earshot, of my family's log cabin at the park, my first kiss, and a fondle or two of not-yet-developed breasts. I thought the French part was sloppy, really, a bit wet for my taste. Even now, decades later, that's not the style I prefer, but so exciting to have done it! He was years older than I but only a self-proclaimed expert. I've never forgotten the sensations, or the shame when, next day, he did not keep those saliva-laced promises. He stole something, I think, but I know not what. And was never seen again. ~J
What a tale. At that age we waste a lot of time on shame self loathing after episodes we deemed indelible.
You were there at such a tender age.
My seventeenth year, also 1967, was spent washing, hanging to dry and ironing with an old mangle iron all the sheets and towels for guests at a lodge in Muskoka. The washing hut was a sauna the entire time.
A cabin girl along with three others. Lovely boys worked there but they were waiters with loads of time between meals.
I found my first real boyfriend three doors down in the staff quarters. A lunky goof from the States like the owners and many of the guests.
It lasted long enough for me to fly to Ohio for a homecoming weekend later that year.
By 1968 I was on to another but the memories of summer ‘67 are sweet ones.
I learned some expensive and demoralizing lessons in Europe myself. Not a great place for young American (plus Jewish) women in 1979-80. Maybe I will write about this one day.
If these were formative lessons, they are story material.
Jean-Paul Belmondo and Robbie Robertson. Okay. As for the rest, Ooh la la.
Wow, you slipped in that stolen book with such slight of hand and words that it was almost forgotten by the end. I would have lost a $50 bet that Rona Maynard once stole something in broad daylight!
I also stole a copy of The Book of Common Prayer from a church in Cambridge (England) while working for Betsy.
Heavens to Betsy, Rona! I won't disclose my long list of poached items but the very first thing I thought I stole was Lotto 649 ticket. It was the kind of ticket where you had to choose your numbers and then pay to play in the next lottery. I didn't realize that part and had snuck a blank ticket up the front of my t-shirt at Becker's when my aunt busted me. My grandmother started her common prayers that I wouldn't become a career petty thief (but then we went scrumping for apples for her famous apple sauce at a roadside orchard in Simcoe).
I had such an innocent time when I was backpacking around France, although not of my own volition. The first night I arrived in Paris, I went to a hotel recommended in the old Europe on However Many Dollars a Day guide as cheap and safe. I had just turned twenty-two.
The woman behind the desk told me they only had one room left — the catch being that I would have to share it with another Canadian backpacker, Johanne from Quebec. Would I like to meet her?
Johanne and I clicked right away. Not only did we share the room, we ended up travelling around France together for a month. My French wasn’t great but her English was virtually non-existent, so I learned more French during that month than I had in all my years at school.
It turned out that Johanne was engaged, and she told me this trip was her last solo adventure. We both wanted to see museums and galleries, eat French food — and I have another story about that. But Johanne wasn’t interested in meeting men, which wasn’t entirely absent from my To Do list.
She was also beautiful. If Johanne had been interested in men, there would have been a surplus. A landslide. One time we were out for a drink with two young men from the Canadian embassy, and I was quite happy with mine. But at a certain point, Johanne got bored and said in we had to leave. She stood up, beckoning me to the door.
Seeing my face afterwards, she said, rough translation: “But you should have told me! I would have arranged everything!”
I think she was two years older than I was. Maybe three.
However, there was also this. Whenever men threw out lewd comments in the street, kissed at us, even tried to grab us, Johanne let loose a stream of joual—Quebecois slang, technically French, but French from the 16th century.
The men were entirely thrown. They thought they should have understood what she was saying and didn’t, and backed off looking confused and overmatched. Which they were.
It was a wonderful trip—and my mother was terrified the entire time. If only she had known.
Oh, the stories mothers do not know! This one could have ends very differently, if not for Johanne’s orientation. All those chauds lapins flummoxed by her joual! Great word picture.
Teen years are tough - but to spend part of it on an adventure in Paris is sooo much more enjoyable! What a wonderful read, Rona - I loved every word!!
I enjoy your stories and so appreciate that you read them. Thank you!
I continue to read them because readers listen. Can’t stop now.
I can see in your passport photo that you have your own "rabbit agenda" and isn't it okay for a girl to have?! I had one, too. Oh, the movie star fantasies were pretty steamy. And those little boys you babysat. I sat two elementary school lotharios one summer. Great story.
I'm glad you can laugh about this now, Rona. Hot rabbits with wandering paws. Did you ever tell your mom?
That passport photo of you is delightful!
Tell my mother?! What happens in Paris, stays in Paris.
🇫🇷
I'm glad that it was pickpocketing and not something more dangerous and traumatizing. The "good old" bad old days. Don't miss what I went through as a teen, but I do appreciate writing and reading stories of what it was like for us. xo
I often wonder why most kids survive adolescence more or less unscathed. The car accidents alone…
That's interesting. I was going to continue my comment, saying that it's comforting to know that most of us didn't survive adolescence unscathed. The conversations I've had in later years blew my inaccurate perceptions out of the water. I found out that most of us were miserable and had some pretty awful stories to report! xo
Great essay- Ah - how much time do you have? I don't even know how to begin. The boom I want to mention here is not the story of the French lawyer in my memoir (which took me 40 years to see in print—That was Paris 1976 on Junior year Abroad—But a story which predates this—in Nice, France, 2 years earlier, where i had gone to take flute masterclasses from some very fancy French flutists. I appealed to one of them—he called me the Belle de Nice and pretended to take my arm and lead me back out the door when I entered. He praised my playing, made me feel valued, said I used to play like a girl and now was learning to play like a woman. I knew it was BS but I was smitten. Then one day he suggested a swim in the late afternoon, when the class was over.. I squirmed as I got into his convertible as other students watched, and I wanted to wear a sign that said "this is not what it looks like."
But guess what ? It was exactly what it looked like. We dove into the sea as the low sun sparkled on the azure waves, the whole time he ogled and said things like “I want to take you on those rocks” I tried to explain that it wasn’t my style, that I took things seriously. No matter.. He took me by the hand to the back of my villa when the key wasn’t in its hiding place, leaned my up against the cold stone wall and in minutes was inside me. It was a classic Me Too, but not a rape, (which is how some interpreted this part of my book) But I did feel so ashamed and hurt. Believe it or not, I returned to Paris 2 years later to study with this guy, and almost let it happen again. But I gained some wisdom and strength and he stopped trying.
The esteemed teacher and the student. Yes, classic Me Too. And you went back to him. This is a sadder story than mine, which is funnier than I realized at the time.
Just out of sight, out of earshot, of my family's log cabin at the park, my first kiss, and a fondle or two of not-yet-developed breasts. I thought the French part was sloppy, really, a bit wet for my taste. Even now, decades later, that's not the style I prefer, but so exciting to have done it! He was years older than I but only a self-proclaimed expert. I've never forgotten the sensations, or the shame when, next day, he did not keep those saliva-laced promises. He stole something, I think, but I know not what. And was never seen again. ~J
“Saliva-laced promises.” Eew. Why is it these guys think they’re irresistible?
This was amazing
I love delivering amazement at Amazement Seeker. Thank you.
What a delightful essay! Oh yes-the things we think we will never get over are so much fun to remember now!
Thank you! Glad you enjoyed this.
What a tale. At that age we waste a lot of time on shame self loathing after episodes we deemed indelible.
You were there at such a tender age.
My seventeenth year, also 1967, was spent washing, hanging to dry and ironing with an old mangle iron all the sheets and towels for guests at a lodge in Muskoka. The washing hut was a sauna the entire time.
A cabin girl along with three others. Lovely boys worked there but they were waiters with loads of time between meals.
I found my first real boyfriend three doors down in the staff quarters. A lunky goof from the States like the owners and many of the guests.
It lasted long enough for me to fly to Ohio for a homecoming weekend later that year.
By 1968 I was on to another but the memories of summer ‘67 are sweet ones.
The music alone boggles the mind.
That is an adorable passport pic, Rona.
Despite the seedier side of this city, Paris is always a good idea! Wonderful essay, Rona!
Thank you, Hilari. Wish I were there right now.
Oh, Rona. Love this share. I know all about following the wrong boys. Thank goodness for the booms we learn from and can laugh at now. 💕
Humor is pretty close to everything. Right up there with beauty and kindness.