In 1998, you could practice your French in France

In 1998, you could practice your French in France. The new and old words were still distanced
by water and paper and games of telephone.

It was the year of the Euro. The year of Kosovo. The year of Sampras and the Yankees. 

The bus wobbled on steel-belted cartoon wheels toward Montpellier from Paris. Not Marseilles
where they steal your money at knifepoint. We had little money and no credit cards and no gold
to sell in a pinch.

In 1998, you relied on maps and eyes and lips and eyes.

In 1998, old lives couldn’t be accessed through an app and unrequited loves could remain in
amber, forever lithe and limitless, forever Lotte—not living in Haddonfield with four kids and a
mortgage. 

Je voudrais deux billets, s'il vous plaît?

With paper maps and paper money, we packed on the packed bus with skinny people who
mumbled grunts and slip n’slide words, a potion of sweet and mildew. The wheel was too big for
the driver’s hands. The mirror too small to see.

The faded baby blue bus was peeling-paint old.

The windows were trimmed in white and had curved corners. 

A man pressed against me. I sent this postcard of the man pressing against me to my older self,
and I received it—perhaps in the middle of the night—and realized he had assaulted me. He had
pressed his body against mine on purpose. It wasn’t just a packed train. Assault is a big word
when time gets between action. Too big. But, memory remains. I hated it. 

I send a postcard back to my 22-year old self: “Push him away. Disez: ‘Arrêtez! Arrêtez!’”

But, no. It’s in amber now. The bus keeps moving.

In 1998, Montepellier was a college town. Probably still is. With old Roman light, and curved
streets and corners that spiral around into other universes. A Pasolini dream of youth and sex and
light and infinity.

Where was la plage? “Où est la plage?” Open sesame. Another bus, this one with kids our age.
College kids. Skinny, loud college kids. Backpacks, not ergonomic like American backpacks, in
mismatched colors—feminine, like this country.

Accidents are scientific phenomena that are caused by destiny. They are caused by magnets that
pull us. Invisible air marshals. Waves that we hop on and ride by hunch, a temporary tunnel of
force until we get to our destination.

Whoosh. Gasp. Ding. Palavas-Les-Flots! A spit of beach that was handspun out of blue cotton
candy and pale yellow gauze. 

A wave. A magnet. A marshal.

In 1998, the streets of Palavas are thin and lean.

Maybe it was late morning or late afternoon, it was late something. The end of some section of
time. This is important. Because it was Sunday. And nothing is guaranteed on a Sunday. This is a
rule of life. 

The Sea and Cake Hotel was vertical and lean like a dancer who smoked.

And the windows, long and narrow and open, let through a breeze that blew sheer curtains
toward us, the wind choosing a shape.

Let us take a moment to think about drapery. There is drapery meant to conceal. And drapery
meant to adorn. And drapery meant to give dimension to the outside. A windowless frame
provides a clear picture. A window provides a view with distortion. A sheer drape over a window
on a frame provides a tease.

On the beach, the circles of young bodies hunch like hooks and smoke hashish rolled into small cigarettes with some tobacco mixed in. They motion and we sit. 

Across the Atlantic is a blonde Hungarian disguised as an American. His skin is pink and his
eyes are blue. His hair is curled, down to his shoulders. His teeth are big and his smile is
venomous. He will go to Samoa. She will never send him a postcard when she’s older. 

In 1998, under this vertical sky, under a happy film of hashish, the Hungarian in American
accent has vanished. It’s just now.

A whirl of half-naked bodies pack into a small French car. It zooms sideways down beach town
roads.

The day would be the sea. The night would be homemade pastis: anise, licorice root, and boiled
sugar poured into a bottle of vodka. Steaks and green beans. Ketchup for the Americans. A song
about love. A song about AIDS. Kissing in French and speaking without words.

Sleeping bodies tangled up. Sleeping bodies on a beach. Sweetness in the breath that comes from
the gut. Everything is smooth. Everything is bright. 

In 1998, you could practice French in France. You could hang your underwear off a rucksack to
dry. You could kiss sweet breath in $2 flip flops without feeling self conscious. You could be
naked in the sea and know that this moment is Le Morne Brabant.  

You can take it with you for later. There are always leftovers.

NATALIE CAMPISI

Natalie Campisi is a writer and journalist based out of Los Angeles. She was raised in a vibrant, creative family of storytellers. She’s married to artist Gordon Tarpley and has a son, Miles Nelson.