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Chapters (45)
  1. Cover
  2. Blame Iton Paris
  3. Copyright Notice
  4. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  5. Book One
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. Six
  12. Seven
  13. Eight
  14. Nine
  15. Ten
  16. Eleven
  17. Twelve
  18. Thirteen
  19. Fourteen
  20. Fifteen
  21. Sixteen
  22. Seventeen
  23. Eighteen
  24. Nineteen
  25. Twenty
  26. Twenty-one
  27. Book Two
  28. Twenty-two
  29. Twenty-three
  30. Twenty-four
  31. Twenty-five
  32. Twenty-six
  33. Twenty-seven
  34. Twenty-eight
  35. Twenty-nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-one
  38. Thirty-two
  39. Thirty-three
  40. Thirty-four
  41. Thirty-five
  42. Thirty-six
  43. Thirty-seven
  44. Thirty-eight
  45. Thirty-nine

I decided most professors in French literature went into their field out of a highly developed sense of romance and then just got trapped by all that literary theory. Either that or I was a lousy student and they were seizing on the chance to get rid of me without hurting my feelings. We agreed that I would finish the semester and take the oral part of my prelims, which would qualify me to leave with a Master’s, so that the time I had spent here on my degree wouldn’t be totally wasted.

And then I would go back to Paris. Paris. Oh, boy. Paris without friends. Paris without the money to live anywhere but in that tiny apartment with Sébastien. Paris without a job and without a work permit, with nothing to do those cold, rainy winter days but look for a job, or use my bogus art history professor card, or sit in that claustrophobic apartment. Paris, that pain-in-the-ass, snooty little city that thought all she had to do was give you a few views of the Eiffel Tower, nice museums, and great fresh bread. Then she expected you to get down in dog poop and kiss her manicured toenails in gratitude while some stranger walked up and pinched your butt. Paris. I had some fond memories of Paris, now, but we had progress to make before you could call our relationship anything but dysfunctional. And I wasn’t sure life as an illegal alien trying to find a job and living in a minuscule apartment was the best way to make that progress. Still, I bought my tickets—refundable, in case I backed out in a last minute of sanity.

I wanted only one thing from Sébastien first.

Seventeen

Iwanted him to come to the U.S. for Christmas, and meet my family, and see my world.

A meeting between future in-laws has always been considered a scary business, but this one promised to be particularly traumatic. The overwhelming majority of my family was male, Southern, and hard-core Republican. The rest of it was just Southern and extremely conservative Republican. And not to put too fine a point on it, but as I’ve already noted, Sébastien was French. He was also adamantly opposed to the death penalty, believed in national medical care, and had once publicly described Georgia’s use of the Confederate flag as obscene. Fortunately, his public on the occasion had been French.