Souvenir

         As an ambitious Psychology/French double major in college I studied in Paris for three months the fall of my senior year.  My French has since fallen by the wayside from lack of use.  I can almost stop reading the subtitles of a French movie about halfway through, after warming up I suppose.  And I can still read my battered copy of Saint-Exupery’s “Le Petit Prince," one of the most delightful children's books of all time.  But heaven help the French tourists who ask for directions to a hotel.

    Europe stuck with me a bit better than the language.  I went on many trips to various countries as well as enjoying the innumerable sights of Paris.  I loved the gargoyles of Notre Dame and the stained-glass walls of la Sainte-Chappelle.  The Catacombs of Paris were probably my favorite.  The Catacombs are tunnels left from ancient limestone quarries, and in the late 18th century were used to store the skeletons from overcrowded cemeteries.  After descending an extremely narrow spiral staircase cut into the rock one was met by oppressive stone walls that made anyone claustrophobic. And when suddenly those walls were lined many feet high with bones and skulls the tunnels seemed even more narrow.  Traveling through the bone-lined tunnels deep within the Earth, thousands of empty eye-sockets staring, each with their own memories behind them... it was an adventure every time.

    Not everything in Europe was so dark; Switzerland gave the vibe I imagine one would feel in a tropical paradise.  Surrounded by snow-capped mountains.  When I went on a weekend trip in September there was a public jazz concert with free coffee from the sponsoring company along Lake Geneva.  I lounged in a chair with the lake at my back as I sipped cappuccino and became better acquainted with scat.  In Rome I saw the Vatican City lit up at night, ate lemon gelato and made a wish on the Trevi Fountain with a Euro quarter.  In accordance with tradition (with which I had been unfamiliar until educated by a fellow tourist) I threw the coin with my back to the Fountain so that I could be assured of returning to that city I don’t know well enough.  I saw the beach in Normandy; I snuck a bottle of its sand through Customs.  Normandy was also my first experience with salt-water and after a lifetime spent swimming in Lake Michigan I was shocked at how very buoyant I was.  In Belgium I sampled the confections of many Chocolatiers and never quite go over my delight at seeing the Mannekin Pis.  The Mannekin Pis is this small fountain in Brussels composed of a young boy peeing.  To further my sense of wonder he was dressed in a trim little Santa outfit as it was nearly Christmas.  Apparently he had quite the wardrobe.  The fountain was inspired by the story of an impish child who put out a fire in Brussels in a very resourceful fashion.  Any country that will immortalize forever a small child for saving a burning city with his urine should enjoy every bit of benevolence the gods can offer.

    I suppose my best-remembered experience occurred in Paris when I saw the vampire.  I had taken to wearing sunglasses that were tinted green any time I was outside, day or night.  They didn’t really impede my vision, and I was still young enough to think it awesomely cool.  I was on the Metro, which I never grew to like for all of its excellent design and convenience, and the train had pulled to a stop as I was on my way chez my host family.  I was looking out the window; my position was such that I could see through the car on the other side to the opposing platform. 

    He was middle-aged, with short black hair and pale skin.  I could only see from his torso, clad in a black shirt with a black jacket.  I mostly noticed him because he had also enjoyed the song made famous by Corey Hart, but whereas the sunglasses I wore this night were clear enough to see through, his were solid black.  And though I could not see the eyes behind them I realized they were staring at me.  At the time I assumed mutual feelings of curiosity at this thief who had stolen what I considered to be my “thing” while abroad, thinking he thought the same of me.  We watched each other, immobile, as the train through which I gazed began to pull away.  He stared through the moving train at me, the moving bars of the windows framing his face as in an old kinetoscope.  Then the train sped away down the tunnel and as the windowless end-portion of the train pulled away I saw he had vanished.  My train began moving and I scanned up and down the opposite platform but did not see his stark figure in the milling crowd.

    I understand I haven’t any concrete evidence.  I was too far away to take a pulse or be repulsed by his breath stinking of the grave.  I could not test his fear of garlic cloves nor crucifixes.  He was not devouring comely maidens nor surrounded by animal familiars.  His closed unsmiling mouth revealed no fangs and his sunglasses hid his unearthly eyes from my view.  His skin was not unusually pale and his dress was more Matrix-fanboy than vampiric.  I haven’t any concrete evidence to prove that he was supernatural, or even there.

    All the same, I’m pretty damn sure he was a vampire.