A Little Imagination

One of my most beloved pastimes in this country is “people watching.” It is perhaps more enjoyable here because there is a certain ambiance associated with it—you sit at a café, sip an espresso and watch the world go by. From young to old, presidents to paupers and great aunt Mimi to Kate Moss, you see it all.

Since I’ve been here for awhile now, I’ve gotten to know a few of the local characters—there’s the angry old man that actually smiles around kids, the woman who walks around talking to no one in rather elegant French and then there’s Madame Rousseau.

Madame Rousseau is an 85 year old French woman. She is sweet and kind. She is revered by adults as the local sage and adored by kids for her unending candy supply. She has white hair, a ready smile and—if you catch her in just the right light—a bit of a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

I was on a walk with the kids recently when I saw her on the street. She was quick to hand out more than a daily allotment of cookies to which Kate said “thank you.” I told Kate she should say merci to Madame Rousseau since she speaks French, but Madame looked at me, indicated she understood and said “Thank you very much” in English!

I was astounded—I’d spent a fair amount of time talking with her and she hadn’t indicated that she knew English. I never would have guessed why this dear old woman knew those few words of English.

She proceeded to explain that after the war, she “hooked up” with an American G.I. who used to say “thank you very much” afterwards. Had this wise, proper Frenchwoman really said she slept with an American soldier in such an off-the-cuff way? Indeed she had. By the time I had translated what she had said, it was too late to react. I said au revoir and continued with my walk.

A couple weeks later, we had a party in the garden to which Madame Rousseau was invited. We had also invited a number of people who were instrumental in organizing our time here—people we wanted to impress and thank. One of those people was my husband’s boss.

After a round of drinks, I noticed a conversation developing between Madame Rousseau and Mr. Boss. Insanely curious, and a bit worried, I walked over to see what they were discussing. To my horror, Madame was recounting her story about the American G.I. Apparently a couple glasses of wine leads to an even more detailed description than I had received the first time.

Thankfully, instead of being shocked or embarrassed by the story (as I was), Mr. Boss simply said she should have married him—then she could have gone to live in the U.S. To this, my kind, sweet, 85 year old Madame just laughed “But I was already married!”

What more is there to say? Voila- la vie en rose. Perhaps I’ll go back to people watching at sidewalk cafés where a little something is still left to the imagination.