It was day five, and I had finally discovered the campus cafeteria. I walked through the ordinary wooden doors with a smile on my face. I had this whole Paris thing completely under control. I mean, I practically lived here, right? I was a complete Parisian genius. I confidently trotted up to the chef behind the counter and mimed my food order. Parisians, I’ve learned, are always willing to play a game of charades with me. I graciously accepted my enormous portions of carb-loaded food and paid the cashier at the check out line. It would be four euros. That is two of the bigger gold and silver coins. Easy. I could even count Parisian money. I was so good at this. A sat down at the grey-topped table and silently applauded myself.. I had conquered the food court.
Then I needed water. Water… Where the heck was the water? I was baffled. France apparently did not have water. I stared at the empty, overly elegant water dish on the table. Not a drop. I was going to die of dehydration in Paris. I clasped my determined hands around the neck of the vase, rose to my feet, and accepted my new Parisian mission. It was essential that this vase be filled. I decided that I would simply use my American charm and ask the next person I saw where the water was located.
I scanned the cafeteria. I was the radar of a warship scanning the seas for submarines. Spotted. A tall, attractive, blue-eyed vessel was eating his cous-cous with his fellow vessel approximately three tables to my left. I marched right up to this unsuspecting, beautiful gentleman and opened my mouth in preparation to astound him with my absolutely grammatically perfect, may as well be native speaking, French.
It was then that I forgot the French word for water.
I stood there for a moment, jaw hanging open and vase gripped tightly in my white-knuckled hand.
“Umm…” I began. He stared. “Umm…”
Water. What the heck is the word for water? It starts with an ‘L’. Ugh! What is it?!
I was helpless. “Umm…” I said once more. “The lee? The lou? The low?”
My face drained. I put my free, sweaty hand on my forehead. The French must hate me. I looked up with an apologetic smile to see that the man that I had approached was simply smirking at me. I lowered my hand and silently pointed to my empty vase.
“Water?” he laughed. He spoke perfect english. He and his perfect teeth were snorting with laughter. What a punk.
He got up from his meal, still gasping for air as my American idiocracy was obviously just too much to handle, and led me to the fountain of hydration. He took the vase out of my hand (oh my gosh, he touched my hand, oh my gosh) and placed it on a dispenser on the right wall. He flipped a magic switch, and suddenly the most beautiful stream of liquid splashed magnificently into my glass. This english-speaking man was my water-finding hero.
“Mercy boo coop! Mercy boo coup!” I smiled. For some reason he laughed some more. I am pretty sure he just fell in love with me, being in Paris and all. “Aur revaur!”
I made my way back to my table and filled my petite water glass with the best water I had ever tasted. I smiled to my mashed potatoes. I was basically a Parisian already.
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