This isn't a man's world.
A very roundabout reminder to eat the butter.
I have a date tomorrow. Which I realize, by the time this finds you, will be yesterday or some other determined time that places my date firmly in the past tense. But in this moment, as I am scrawling these words into my Moleskin, it has yet to happen. It exists as some future event. Though technically it is not a date in the romantic sense, I am choosing that qualifier because all of the traditional elements of a date are there and I am in need of a touch of whimsy this week. While I would love to report that I have been passing romantic afternoons reading in parks, lounging in my partner’s lap while he plays with my hair, alas, it has yet to be manifested. In the meantime, I am having lunch with Annie.
I met Annie a couple weeks ago in the perfume department of Galerie Lafayette. While I was hunting down Anaïs Nin’s signature scent she was standing directly to my left and even though my eyes were closed, I could feel her watching me as I brought the bottle of Mitsoukoto to my nose. She launched into an explanation of her favorite fragrance, in French, and we went on with our exchange for a solid fifteen minutes. Something about my earnestness made her feel comfortable enough to ask me a lot of questions. And something about her eagerness to share with me made me very open to answering them. She gave me her phone number and told me, if I like art and architecture and am up for a lot of walking, she makes for a fabulous tour guide. And so, tomorrow, we are meeting for lunch and planning to explore Saint-Sulpice and Saint-Germain-des-Prés and their surrounding neighborhood.
I am looking forward to the human interaction, the French exchange, a delicious meal, and exploring more cultural landmarks. I am also excited that there is no fear or worry involved in this type of meet-up. As a woman that’s unfortunately not always the case. The very first time I met my French teacher in for-real-life I messaged two friends back home his photo, phone number, and the address and time of the place where we would be meeting. To be clear, I was NOT actually worried anything bad would happen. We have been friends online for over a year and his kindness and generosity have always been at the forefront of our exchanges. But I have had multiple uncomfortable (read dangerous) experiences with men in the past, and you just really can’t ever be too careful. The conversation flowed easily with my French teacher, the comfortable banter that belies the relative newness of our “knowing” of one another. I love when I meet people who feel like they have been friends forever. I shared with him that I was supposed to have a date the following day with a man I matched with on Hinge, and he teased me about what I was hoping to get out of it, playfully calling him a Ken. But my very honest answer seemed to catch him off guard. I, only partially joking, told him all I really wanted was to not get murdered. The bar is so very, very low. Of course I was hoping to have a good time, maybe create some chemistry, but my main goal was to stay safe. When he realized there was a good degree of seriousness in my response he looked momentarily disappointed. Not in me, but for me. Like he was sorry that would ever be a legitimate concern. I wondered for a moment what it would be like to move through the world like a man. Then I shrugged it off and we changed the subject.
I’ve had multiple creepy dating experiences in Colorado, but I’ve never considered whether that bad behavior might be specific to region or if its insidious. I wonder if the same kind of dangers exist in the online dating culture here in Paris as they do back home in the U.S. ? Is taking photos of a perspective date’s license plate (or some equivalent because metro) overkill or par for the course? There are two gals on Instagram who interview attractive men and women about their dating lives in Paris. They are setup in front of a cafe and the two hosts alternate asking the guest du jour questions like, what’s the wildest place they’ve ever hooked up, or if Paris deserves to be called the City of Love, or which language do they prefer to flirt in. I have never heard them address preferred safety tactics, so maybe the culture is different here. Or maybe I haven’t dug deep enough into their content archives. Or maybe crappy things women have to watch out for isn’t the kind of content that gets likes and shares. But I would be curious to hear some of their insider answers.
The news has been an abomination this week. My nervous system feels threadbare and I was having a hard time being a human. I cancelled my French class on Monday because I wasn’t feeling well. Meaning I was feeling so wildly overwhelmed I had to move my body so my brain wouldn’t explode. I walked for hours with Esmé to keep from crying. News networks and social media are a steady stream of devious details about ICE raids in Minneapolis and the Epstein File updates. More and more names being released with absolutely no accountability. The bombardment has left me feeling like a crazy person. How do I keep my head above water?
People are appalled by the new and numerous names being identified as perpetrators of child rape, but instead of apprehending any of them, government officials and news outlets are altering the language in their references. Child rape has been changed to sex with underage women. Stomach churning mental calisthenics to micro-manage the truth into a more palatable picture. It’s infuriating. Language matters. This is blatant abuse. Sociopathic spin. And why is no one worried about the hundreds of victims who also had their names released in the latest wave of DOJ damage when they conveniently failed to redact their personal information. Their safety has been compromised once again, now that the general public has access to their home addresses, email addresses, and places of employment due to DOJ negligence. Their lives have been ripped apart and uprooted on so many levels for so many years. I will never understand the instinct to protect those who perpetrate and perpetuate harm. But I do understand, all too well, what its like to have that harm minimized or dismissed.
When I first moved back to Telluride I picked up odd jobs to pay the bills. I am really good at cleaning and I also happen to love it. So one of my favorite side hustles was working for a local high-end cleaning service run by my friend’s mother. I had been doing odd jobs for her here and there for years and this particular day started out just like any other. I arrived at the multi-floor mountain mansion and was greeted by my friend’s mom who gave me the tour, walking me from room to room and showing me what needed to be done in each: laundry, kitchen, multiple bedrooms, and all six bathrooms. The kind of residence that requires the pillow cases to be ironed and where the vacuum costs over $500.
Once I was acquainted with the checklist, my boss left for the day and I was let loose to move around on my own, at my own pace. While I was cleaning the kitchen I noticed two white men rebuilding the back deck off the great-room. One was much older than his counterpart, but they moved around each other easily on the other side of the giant glass doors carrying long boards up even longer ladders. I didn’t give them much more of a thought except to note that it must be a cold line of business as it was already heading into winter and we were at a very high elevation.
The first time it happened I thought it was my fault. I came around the corner of the kitchen island and crossed the threshold into the powder room only to be abruptly halted by the shock of seeing the younger of the two men sitting on the toilet to my left. I backed out instantaneously, apologizing profusely for what I thought was having just walked in on him taking a shit. It was a split second, but I was embarrassed.
Later I would find him sitting on the top stair scrolling on his phone and when I said excuse me and motioned that I needed to get past him, heaving the heavy body of the Miele vacuum behind me, he merely shifted his feet slightly to one side so I would be forced to maneuver past him awkwardly. I found this incredibly annoying and disrespectful, but I wasn’t afraid. I was at work. Minding my own business.
After hours spent vacuuming I went from room to room to make sure I had collected all the cleaning supplies and turned out all the lights. When I went to the powder room off the kitchen to gather my spray bottles the same contractor was once again seated on the toilet, and this time he was leaned back in a reclined position, completely naked, knees spread apart, penis erect and fully visible.
There were no apologies from me this time. I backed out before anything could fully register and ran down the two flights of stairs, fumbled on my snow boots, grabbed my jacket and bag and exited through the garage into broad daylight. Once I had put some distance between me and the mansion and the naked man I called my boss to tell her what happened. That phone call was surreal. I remember feeling bad for leaving supplies strewn about and not finishing my task. And embarrassed that I had just said penis out loud to my friend’s mom. The whole scenario sounded made up to me even as I was relaying exactly what I had just witnessed. There is such a disconnect with those types of disturbing behavior. Your brain bargains with reality. Oh no, that couldn’t possibly be. It’s so inexcusable you’re mind short circuits trying to make meaning. My boss apologized profusely and said, “I’m sorry you can’t unsee that.” And then she called the property manager to report the incident. By the time I got home the situation had escalated. The property manager called me and asked me to report all the same information I had just told my friend’s mom. He listened carefully, and said, “I’m sorry you can’t unsee that,” before getting off the phone with me to pass on my story to the general contractor. The property manager quickly called me back to say that the president of the general contracting company was requesting a phone meeting with me to detail the events in order to decide how to proceed. The president apologized profusely saying how he was sorry I was ever put in that position. That is was in direct violation of the man’s contract to have even been inside of the house in the first place. That employees were always to refrain from using homeowner bathrooms and were instead required to use the Port-a-potty that had been provided. And that spending company time playing on his personal phone, let alone obstructing my access and ability to perform my own job while doing so, was definitely forbidden. The president spent a good deal of time with me on the phone, collecting as much information as possible. He said he was going directly to HR and promised me that this matter would not be taken lightly. He thanked me for coming forward and assured me that the man would be terminated immediately. Before getting off the call he told me, I’m sorry you can’t unsee that.”
The president called back an hour later asking what he referred to as, clarifying questions. Had I actually seen him masturbating or had I only seen his exposed penis? Had I made direct eye contact with the man or only seen his naked body? Apparently these specifics would mark the difference between getting suspended or getting fired. Exposed erection could be accommodated. Masturbation might be grounds for dismissal. Maybe. Possibly. Probably not.
By the time the woman in the HR department made her call to me I was livid. She explained that the man had just been called in and questioned and though he confirmed exactly what I said happened, he added that he “thought I had already left for the day” and that “erections happen and sometimes you can’t control them”. She went on to explain to me that “he has been with us for five years. Nothing like this has ever happened before. He is only 25, he is young and stupid. I’m not making excuses for him. I’m so sorry you can’t unsee that. It is within your right to try to file criminal charges with the police, the offense is against you not our company. You didn’t actually witness him masturbating so I don’t know if it is a criminal offense. You obviously don’t have to decide right this minute, but please let us know what you decide. I hope you don’t have to see him again, I mean I’d hate for you to run into him around town.”
There is not one single acceptable situation where anyone should have to see a stranger's genitalia without consent. It’s menacing. And in the state of Colorado indecent exposure is considered a Class 1 Misdemeanor and can result in 18 months in custody as well as a $5,000 fine. The moments between exposure and getting out of that house are still a complete blur. I was there. And then by some miracle I was not. I can’t unsee that. But more importantly, I can’t unfeel my sense of safety being threatened. The absence of physical assault does not dismiss the fact that this was a deliberate act of sexual violence. Hostile and dangerous. And now the duty would fall on me to expend my personal time and energy attempting to file charges.
When I talked to my friend and her mom about how I planned to pursue the situation they both pushed me to drop it. They didn’t understand why I felt the need to pursue anything further. My friend went so far as to ask why I would want to ruin this guy’s whole life over one incident. I was afraid that following through with calling the police would result in losing that friendship. What if I made it a big deal and her mom’s small business suffered at the hands of the powerful general contractor? My actions could create unspeakable tension. This was an employee of a multi-million dollar construction company who had been working for them for five years, building homes for Hollywood’s A-List and wealthy elite. Turns out they had brought him all the way from the clients previous project in Hawaii. When I filled a formal complaint through the San Miguel Resource Center requesting to see written proof that he had indeed been terminated, they responded to assure me that immediate actions were taken, but apologized that no proof could be provided at this time.
I often wonder if he was ever actually fired. And I have a particular loop of grief for not having followed through further. I worry about whether he went on to harm another woman. I wonder if I hadn’t been concerned about hurting the business reputation of my friend’s mother maybe I would have done a better job of standing up for myself. Telluride is a very small town and it haunted me for months, always worrying I might run into him at the coffee shop or find myself standing in the same aisle as him at Clark’s Market. I got lucky and I never, not once, saw him again, but that experience left me on edge in other ways. I think I will forever be suspicious of a man’s intentions. And I really appreciate every interaction I get to have with the men in my life that allow me to exhale. Every cell in my body hurts for these women who were violated physically and emotionally. It makes me feel so powerless and anxious when I read the details of their stories. It’s been a week of retraumatization. But I don’t want to look away and leave these women alone.
So I walk.
For kilometers. And hours.
And I try to pay attention to all the good and beautiful things around me. And I find a sunny spot to post up with Esmé along the Seine. I attempt to read my book, but my brain has trouble focusing and I find myself reading parts of the same paragraph repeatedly without absorbing any of it. And then a French woman interrupts me to ask, “Where have all the tables gone?” and “Why are they closed today?” And I look up from my page to see her motioning towards a large menu posted to the wall just above the step I’m sitting on. I glance around me for a moment, taking in the questions she is asking in rapid fire French. And I notice for the first time that I am indeed sitting on the nearly empty steps of what she was expecting to be a bustling apéro scene. I explain to her that I have no further information other than to confirm that, yes, they do appear to be closed even though the poster does not appear to support these off hours of operation. That it’s my first time in this particular part of the city and that I picked this specific spot purely for its position in the sun and proximity to the river without being directly next to a crowd of people playing music or exercising on yoga mats with multiple sets of hand-weights they had clearly hauled down with them. She asked if she could join me and climbed the wooden steps to take her own place in the sunny spot beside me, her tiny fluff-ball of a dog making herself at home between us, hind legs extended straight out like a human child laying on their stomach. The woman went on to explain what a truly wonderful spot it is when it’s actually open and that I should definitely make a point of coming back. She noted that the prices aren’t bad and the people watching is exceptional.
She asked me what breed of dog Esmé is and when I said le Berger américain miniature she countered, “Pas Berger australien ? And I fumbled through explaining that I think they are the same thing based on breed standards, but that their origins are a bit confusing and that I have read on sperate occasions that they hail from the Basque region or North America or Australia/New Zealand depending on who you ask. And then I added, On est américaine, and cunducted my index finger between Esmé and myself. She looked at me confused. We are American, I repeated in English, smiling sheepishly. I keep waiting to get called out for my USA connections, but more often than not, people are just surprised by my accent and then really curious as to why I know French. It makes me ever so pleased to have my awkward navigation considered actual conversation. And I continue to be amazed by how willing people are to engage with me in French. The woman sitting next to me and I talked for well over an hour about all kinds of personal matters, though we never managed to exchange names. Timothée,1 I apologize for cutting class, but I think you would be proud to know I held my own explaining the American healthcare system and asking questions here and there as she detailed the history of the pedestrian pathway we were sitting along and its evolution into existence over the last 10-ish years. She asked me how I knew French and I told her about how I had studied it in school and that it had always been a dream to get back to it. She said I could have just gone to Canada. It’s a whole lot closer. And I explained how Paris has always been on my heart. All the history she had just taken great care in sharing with me, was precisely the reason why I wanted to be here. She smiled and agreed that she gets it.
She told me she has a daughter at Columbia University studying Psychology and a 33-year old son living in Montreal who is scheduled next week to get a vasectomy though she wishes he wouldn’t because even though both he and his Canadian girlfriend say they are certain they don’t want children, you really just never know if you’ll change your mind. She lauds her daughter’s decision to use the NuvaRing and launches into something just shy of a paid endorsement of its 99% efficacy and 100% efficiency, repeatedly telling me that all I have to do is position it, wait three weeks, then take it out. Repeat on a four week schedule. I am flattered that she thinks this recommendation finds me at an age and time when it would be appreciated. I choose not to take the time to explain to her that I am over 35, and as such, at increased risk of blood clots. Perhaps in part due to my current level of vocabulary, I also don’t explain to her that once upon a time in college I was a NuvaRing prophetic for several months, but that no matter how carefully I positioned it my body found a way to reject its presence, creating many embarrassing/entertaining anecdotes depending on how I chose to look at them. Like the time my boyfriend’s mom found one tussled in the sheets when she went to strip the bed to do laundry, or the time I lost one to the pavement on a morning dog walk while only wearing pajama shorts and flip flops in the humid, 100º North Carolina, August heat.
I have been so inspired by the exchanges I have been able to have since I arrived here in Paris. The kindness of strangers on the street and my ability to meet and interact with these women in another language, in fun, light-hearted ways is so uplifting. I remember laughing out loud with the woman when she told me how she suggested maybe her son should freeze some of his sperm before following through with the procedure, but he couldn’t get over the fact that he would be charged monthly “rent” to store his “sample” and ultimately decided to pass. She explained the rent part to me again and just kept giggling.
We parted ways when the sun dipped down behind the buildings on the left bank, but not before she gave me a quick history lesson about the difference between their architecture and the building she lived in only five blocks away. I thanked her for taking the time to talk to me and for making me laugh. I told her that the day had been really hard and she just smiled and said, “You’re here,” gesturing to the air around her. “You’re doing it. Good Luck !”
I walked the hour back home with Esmé in tow, feeling more hopeful about humanity and a little lighter about my place in it. There is something very equalizing about learning new ways in which my lived experience is different. And the same.
The news continues to stream out from every outlet with a ferocity of vile updates. Its hard for me to want to engage, but its even harder for me to look away. Tomorrow I get to go to lunch and share more stories and learn new things and be in safe space with a nice woman who has generously offered me her time. Tomorrow will soon be yesterday. But in this present moment all of that gives me hope.
And whenever this finds you, I wish you the same.
AUTHORS NOTE
I had lunch with Annie yesterday and the whole experience of being in my curiosity and sharing with another human made me feel so filled up I wanted to make sure to express that even though things are hard, I also know there are amazing things out there even when it feels near impossible to see them or like you’re not allowed to enjoy them. I told my friend Rachael-Robin when we had a catch up call the other day, that I don’t know what the fuck we are supposed to do, but I know giving up is not the answer. Then I made myself a really good sandwich because nourishment of all kinds is important. I spread the baguette thick with salty butter and gave a gentle acknowledgment to the past versions of me who had the fat content of every item in the grocery store memorized, and I thanked them kindly for the services they thought they had been providing, and went about my creation.
When I don’t have the words, I find comfort in someone else’s. Here is a poem, some new vocabulary I learned this week, and a few other hopeful things. Please feel free to share your hopeful things with me, too. I would love to know what gets you through the rough times.
BECAUSE
by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
So I can’t save the world-
can’t save even myself,
can’t wrap my arms around
every frightened child, can’t
foster peace among nations,
can’t bring love to all who
feel unlovable.
So practice opening my heart
right here in this room and being gentle
with my insufficiency. I practice
walking down the street heart first.
And if it is insufficient to share love
I will practice loving anyway.
I want to converse about truth,
about trust. I want to invite compassion
into every interaction,
One willing heart can’t stop a war.
One willing heart can’t feed all the hungry.
And sometimes, daunted by a task too big,
I ask myself, What’s the use of trying?
But today, the invitation is clear:
to be ridiculously courageous in love.
To open the heart like a lilac in May,
knowing freeze is possible
and opening anyway.
To take love seriously.
To give love wildly.
To race up to the world
as if I were a puppy,
adoring and unjaded,
stumbling on my own exuberance.
To feel the shock of indifference,
of anger, of cruelty, of fear,
and stay open. To love as if it matters,
as if the world depends on it.
Hopeful Things:
• Total $3.40 for the best baguette & pain au chocolat
• Les boîtes à livres
• Rainbows
• Taylor Swift music videos
• Really good conversations
• Sunlight cast between buildings
• When strangers sitting next to you lean over to ask you a question in French
• Schiaperelli keyholes and hand clutches
• The way you can sit somewhere in Paris forever and never feel in the way
• People reading EVERYWHERE
• Kids eating their goût while they walk home from school with their parents
• The way old churches smell
• Being introduced to knew bookstores
New French Vocabulary:
trouvaille - a chance encounter with something wonderful
polyvalence - versatility / adaptability / flexibility
trou de serrure - keyhole
déballer - to unwrap
basculer - tip over / topple / tumble
jlsg - Je le savais grave - I totally knew it / I knew it for sure
démarrer à la poussette - to start a car by pushing it
la poussette - stroller
What a ride you give us to take, hurt, anger, despair, happiness, laughter (the pyjamas), acceptance and joy. I feel the words as I read them. I have a rainbow for you but it appears that I can't add it here. WhatsApp to the rescue !!