When I saw him holding a sign with our name on it at the end of the Arrivals hall at Charles de Gaulle Airport, I knew that the rest of the process would be a breeze, that all the keys would fit the locks. A kiss on each cheek for me, a handshake for Mr. North, and we were in his care for the duration of our very bon voyage.
Amy, my daughter, discovered him long ago through a dear friend who travels and writes. He has welcomed every one of our family members and luckiest friends to Paris on each of their trips ever since, has tssked and fussed and herded them through the baggage and terminal maze and made them feel like everything would be fine. He knows how to get or do or find anything you need; he is our Paris fixer.
When I met him the first time, on a trip with Amy in 2002, he was married and had an eight-year-old daughter of his own, Marion. Now Amy has a nine-year-old daughter and Marion is in university, Armenio is married to a new Madame and they have a six-year-old son, Valentin. Armenio is still short and handsome with his tight cap of black hair and tidy, polished shoes. He always wears a dress shirt and tie and usually a black jacket, zipped, and black trousers. When I asked Amy, before we left home, if she thought I would recognize him after so long, she said, "He looks exactly the same." When I told him that story in person, he said, patting his waist, "Well, the same except that I'm older and heavier" (plus vieux et plus lourd).
Armenio speaks little English, and my many years of learning French are in the blurry past, but we get by. When I was with Amy in Paris, I mostly listened while she chattered away with the locals, echoing a word here or there - le canard, la glaçe, le Marais. This time, with English-Only Mr. North, it was up to me, so I began to try, rustily, with Armenio on the drive into the city. He didn't cringe when I substituted the occasional Spanish word ('y' for 'et' - happened a lot on the first day), even when Mack, from the back seat, said, "Why are you saying sí all the time? Isn't it oui?" Turns out Armenio understands, though doesn't speak, a fair amount of English which makes us sort of like mirror images of each other. It works.
Our flight landed on Sunday morning. Not much is open in Paris on Sunday, especially not markets or bakeries, which I knew and had anxiously discussed on the phone with Amy, who had told Armenio. So after he muscled our stuff and our selves into the apartment I had rented and after thoroughly charming Evelyne, our greeter, he put a shopping bag (tied with a ribbon) on the kitchen counter and said he had brought a surprise. Inside were fresh croissants, a baguette, milk, butter and strawberry jam, ready for Monday morning. I almost cried.
We saw him later that day, after unpacking and a nap, for a drive around the city (for newbie Mack's benefit) that cruised all the recognizable tourist stops (so we could check them off the Must See list) and showed my wide-eyed husband just how big and how crowded Paris is. On Tuesday and Wednesday I emailed him, writing in French, when I had questions and knew he had answers (thank Dog for Google Translate). And on Friday he picked us up at 8 AM and drove us to Normandy, two hours away on the autoroute and into what turned out to be our shared past.
I'll describe later in this series what we saw and where we went that day, driving and stopping and walking between Caen and Vierville-sur-Mer, but we started at the Memorial, the Center for History and Peace and spent the morning being reminded of what we Americans had studied and learned about from so far away, the war my father had fought in, that had fascinated Mack in newsreels he'd watched in Chicago theaters as a boy. After hours in the museum and a quick lunch, Armenio asked if he could leave us for a moment to get something for his son at the gift shop, and he came back with a replica of an English Spitfire airplane and a small American flag. "Valentin, il aime les drapeaux," he said. He loves flags.
As we drove between beaches and monuments and cemeteries, I asked Armenio about his family. All four of his grandparents were Portuguese who had emigrated to France; they married and settled on the outskirts of Paris. His parents were young children when France fell to Hitler in 1940; they lived under the German occupation until they were liberated by the British and Americans following the success of Operation Overlord that began on D-Day in Normandy. These threads of lives that cross and knot, his people and ours, nearly half a world apart and over half a century ago, are woven into one long, dense textile.
I'll describe later in this series what we saw and where we went that day, driving and stopping and walking between Caen and Vierville-sur-Mer, but we started at the Memorial, the Center for History and Peace and spent the morning being reminded of what we Americans had studied and learned about from so far away, the war my father had fought in, that had fascinated Mack in newsreels he'd watched in Chicago theaters as a boy. After hours in the museum and a quick lunch, Armenio asked if he could leave us for a moment to get something for his son at the gift shop, and he came back with a replica of an English Spitfire airplane and a small American flag. "Valentin, il aime les drapeaux," he said. He loves flags.
As we drove between beaches and monuments and cemeteries, I asked Armenio about his family. All four of his grandparents were Portuguese who had emigrated to France; they married and settled on the outskirts of Paris. His parents were young children when France fell to Hitler in 1940; they lived under the German occupation until they were liberated by the British and Americans following the success of Operation Overlord that began on D-Day in Normandy. These threads of lives that cross and knot, his people and ours, nearly half a world apart and over half a century ago, are woven into one long, dense textile.
It was late and dark on our way back to Paris that Friday; Mack and I were tired. A fat gold moon rose in the night. Armenio chose the fastest route, studded with toll stops*, heading for the tunnels under the glittering, jarringly modern skyscrapers of La Défense. As we passed the autoroute sign for Versailles, I said, "Isn't that near where you and Manuela and Valentin live?" Yes, he said, about 40 minutes to Paris. From the back, Mack yelped, "Oh, no! You have to drive us into the city and then drive all the way back out here?" (Mack hates to drive.)
Completely deadpan, Armenio, in French, said, "Well, I could take you two home with me, and you could walk the rest of the way to the apartment. It would only take you about three hours." I howled with laughter while Mack yelled, "What did he say? What did he say?"
The sort of thing you would only say to a friend, a snarky, joke-y, fully human, revealing comment. I felt like we were just admitted to the cool kids' club, like we were home.
"He loves flags."
* Stopping/paying at a dozen or so toll booths on this trip led to the following exchange in the car:
Completely deadpan, Armenio, in French, said, "Well, I could take you two home with me, and you could walk the rest of the way to the apartment. It would only take you about three hours." I howled with laughter while Mack yelled, "What did he say? What did he say?"
The sort of thing you would only say to a friend, a snarky, joke-y, fully human, revealing comment. I felt like we were just admitted to the cool kids' club, like we were home.
"He loves flags."
* Stopping/paying at a dozen or so toll booths on this trip led to the following exchange in the car:
Mack announces he has noticed that all the money takers at the toll booths are women.
I ask Armenio (in French) if that's true.
Armenio says: "Yes, 80 to 90 percent are women."
Mack says: "Women are probably better at counting."
I roll my eyes and repeat this to Armenio in French.
Armenio says: "Women are better at money."
(Armenio is on Wife # 2. He would know.)
I love this installment of the Paris Adventure!
ReplyDeletei'm so grateful for you, joan haskins.
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