c’est la vie

Last week I was travelling in France.  I speak a little bit of French, and decided it might be fun to explore Paris on vacation.  I went to Notre Dame on my first day there.  Even though I’m not Catholic, the architecture of the cathedral and the solemn reverence of mass inspired me – so much so that at the end of mass, I decided to take Communion.

The problem is, I’ve never taken Catholic communion before.  My friend told me later that you’re supposed to go through Confirmation before you do this, but I didn’t know that at the time.  I grew up as a Baptist preacher’s kid, and at our church anyone who wanted to take Communion could – as long as they understood that if they weren’t saved or had unconfessed sin, God would strike them dead.

I watched other people in the line in front of me walk up to the priest, hold out cupped hands to receive the wafer, put it in their mouth and chew, and then walk back to their seat. I swear I did exactly the same thing everyone else did, except when I held out my hands, the priest barked something at me in French. He said it again, and I realized he was asking, “Do you want Communion or not?”

“Oui. Oui.  S’il vous plait,” I said, still unclear about what I was doing wrong.

He motioned that he wanted to put the wafer directly in my mouth instead of in my cupped hands.  So there I stood at the front of Notre Dame cathedral with my mouth gaping open in front of several hundred people, thinking, “I’ll bet they just do this to gullible Americans.” 

The following evening I visited the Eiffel Tower.  My friend and I stood in line for an hour to buy tickets, and then were directed to wait in a two hour line to take the elevator to the top.  But we had drunk a carafe of wine at dinner, and there was no way I could go three hours without using the bathroom.  I tapped the security guard on the shoulder and asked if I could use the bathroom and then get back in line.

He scowled at me, so I said in French, “I need to use the toilet.”

“Why?” he shouted.

“Because I have to pee,” I said.

“Why?” he shouted again.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” I said, resorting to English.  “Because I’m a girl.  Because my bladder’s the size of a pea.  Because I just drank some wine and a bottle of water.  Because I can’t hold it for three hours.”

As I rattled off the reasons why I needed the bathroom, I realized that everyone in line was listening to me, and some were even laughing at me.  Shoot, I thought as I stood there pointing to my bladder, resorting to charades to convince the burly guard to let me run to the restroom.  I look like an idiot again.

When I boarded the return flight, the seat next to me was empty and I breathed a sigh of relief that I’d have the benefit of extra leg room on the 8 hour flight.  And then, just as they were closing the doors, a large girl with horrible acne, greasy hair and three carry-on bags scurried onto the plane, bumping everyone on the head as she stumbled down the aisle with her bags.

As she plopped herself down in the seat next to me, I got a whiff of the worst body odor I’ve ever smelled.  During the flight, she chattered incessantly “because it makes time go by faster,” walked up to the First Class cabin several times to steal some water bottles and a piece of chocolate cake, and warned me that she was going to lay across my lap and take photographs out the window if she saw an asteroid go by.

Mother of Mercy, I thought as I closed my eyes and tried not to lose my mind. Why do these things always happen to me?

And then I thought about how boring life would be if these things didn’t happen.  The awkward moments at the front of Notre Dame, the bathroom charades at the Eiffel Tower, the asteroids and stolen chocolate cake on a transatlantic flight – these are what make the subtle but important difference between having a life and truly living it.

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