Tuesday 18 January 2011

USA, USA

Sometimes on foggy French mornings I can’t help but miss the United States. I lived there for a huge chunk of my life and there is a lot to be wistful for. The food, 24 hour stores (oh god how I love the 24 hour stores!), general friendliness, national parks, NYC, San Francisco, cholas, pho huts, unironic flannel, casual conversation, Miami…I mean, yeah, I do love me some USA.

But my neighbor takes it to a whole new level. If such a thing exists he is France’s answer to the Francophile, he is a United Statesaphile.

As I type this he is blasting Kenny Rogers “The Gambler” from his porch where he is conducting a barbecue (yes, in winter). If it were summer there’s no doubt I’d be listening to his friends splashing around in his above ground pool. Next to said pool, his Hummer is parked. It is yellow. It has American flag dice hanging from the mirror and a California license plate in the window. He drives by blasting Johnny Cash.

When I first moved here from the US, I would walk my dog by his house every day. One evening I heard him singing Garth Brooks (The Dance) from his front porch. It was my first real look at him. A balding man in his mid to late forties, he sat perched in his rocking chair, dog by his side. “You like Garth Brooks?” I called out in English and he looked taken aback.

“What?” he asked in flustered French.

“Garth Brooks, you like him?” I say again, except now in French.

“Yes, I love him; he is a real cowboy I think. You’re American?”

“Yep.” I laughed “American enough to know he’s no cowboy”.

“Why would you say something like that?” He huffed, almost indignant.

“Because he’s a pop star now. You can’t be a cowboy and a pop star at the same time.” There was silence. He looked at me thoughtfully and he smiled.

“I do know something.”

“Yeah?”

His eyes got narrow and he hunched his shoulders over. He put his hands up in front of his chest, palms in, and begun gesturing back and forth like an old Italian nonno, “You fuck my wife? You fuck my wife? Are you tellin me you fuck my wife?” United Statesaphile leaned back incredibly pleased with himself. I could not stop laughing. “I love de Niro” he laughed in English. Apparently so.

Since then he has asked me to multiple “American” events. I declined today as it’s my first day off in a while and I have serious studying to catch up on.

But there is something profoundly excellent and simultaneously heartbreaking about him. He has a dream trip. It’s to rent a bright red Mustang and start in Phoenix. From there he will drive up the California Coast and into Oregon and Washington. He’ll shoot East and drive until he hits Yellowstone and then follow the circle back down through Wyoming, Colorado, Utah and Nevada. It would be his first time ever visiting the United States. He explained one evening over a Heineken that his English was so poor he was embarrassed, and frankly scared, to commit to the trip. But one day he’ll start studying English again. One day soon. So he saves up what money he can and dreams. He watches old movies and talks about the day when he can smirk like Steve McQueen and ride into that burning sunset…

“You fuck my wife?!” He yells at me when I walk by with my dog.

“You talkin to me? Are you…talkin…to me?” I yell back.

He chuckles and leans back content. One day, into that burning sunset…

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