Low and behold there were two American girls here in Alsace who came to visit the vineyard. I was working out front when they walked by and I thought they might be American but, really, honestly, we are out in the middle of nowhere and hardly any Americans even know who we are let alone where. I run some items into the Cave and when I pass them Apolline mouths at me, “American,” so I of course have to say, “Oh…my…God, Americans.” I then continued on with my details since I was more than hungry and ready to be done with the day and the day is not done until the day is done if you know what I’m scratchin’ at.
Later we all begin to talk and I have to admit it was really nice to finally get to speak and hear some American. Up to that point I might have heard a hundred English words and several of those were from a sweet old lady who tends the vines and who would ask me questions like, “what is this?” and point to something or when she asked me what “mooter fucker” was? Apparently that was my favorite phrase that day when I was avec mon sécateur. I just couldn’t tell her.
I have to admit that I was very happy that they were good representatives of the good ol’ US of A. One knew French, the other not but more than willing to play along. Both liked wine and travel and didn’t come across at all as ugly Americans. Not to mention they were not ugly at all, attractive actually. So we tell them about the salon des vins in Paris since the one lives there currently and we give them the info and such and I’m sure that’s the last I’ll see of them.
Friday, the first real day of the Paris salon des vins and I look up to find them strolling along looking up at all the signs of the individual vineyards and once again I have to go, “Oh my God, Americans.” The funny thing is that back in Bollenberg I was on, happy to be talking and rolling with the dialogue but after the day and a half of being utterly confused in Paris and with the grueling time schedule I was, well, a bit out of it. Not to mention me suddenly speaking English sounded really weird. I felt like the loudest cat in the room and I found myself dialing down any tone I had, which in hindsight probably made me sound more like a mouse than anything. So I of course screw up, giving them a glass of wine in the wrong order and there is an order and you cannot betray that order and Mr. Gaugin tells them to go away and come back in an hour if they want to try the wine. I am a schmuck. I mean really, yesterday was my first day with the actual wines. The previous three weeks, as you all know by now, have been hard and fast labor. The whole thing was so frustrating at times I’m surprised I wasn’t doing shots of our Brandy.
So they return in an hour to try the wine and find me tilting back a glass. I just needed a little gusto. They tried the wine and all was well and just when I was struck with the idea of seeing what they were doing later an old, crazy, and I mean crazy lady sidled right up next to me and was not letting me get away. She had decided here and now she was going to practice her English. Me, I was totally hoping to have a night of English and fun and to get away from the night I was supposed to have. You see Benôit’s fiancée was coming into town and he made her sound very unhappy about, well, everything. Let’s see, hang out and be a third wheel involving a language I don’t speak, or, do the town with people who know Paris and speak English? Welcome to the no brainer part. I mean I don’t even know if they would have been up for it but it was at least worth a shot. But no, I got a full discourse on some obscure philosopher and why I should drop everything and learn why he was who he was and all that jazz. So after several beats of them watching this gnarly looking woman they say “best of luck” and are gone. It would be the last English I would here for two days outside of Benôit.
BTW, if you are those American girls reading this, Canaille means “roguish scoundrel.” For you other people, you’ll just have to buy the book.
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