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Yesterday… for some reason we talked a lot about Paris, on Threads. And inexorably my mind went there. To 1995. And to what led me to it, almost three years before. So let’s start there.
It was a glorious Summer day by the sea. I was riding my bike, at the time the Yamaha XTZ 750, a trail super bike. Ahead of me, a friend was driving his car and with him was this girl… She was something else. We were heading to his beach house, a few miles South of Porto, Portugal. Beautiful road, railroad tracks on our left, beach houses on our right, and just beyond those, miles and miles of amazing beaches… and my adored ocean. We were traveling South.
About half way through, I decided to show off. There was a long stretch of dirt on our right side, between the two way road and the houses. I throttled up and took it, placing myself on my friend’s car right side, and waved at the girl riding shotgun. She smiled and waved back. My friend noticed me, as he probably checked for me in the rear view mirror and I was gone. He was not smiling, being a motorcyclist himself, he knew me and could just see what was coming.
He slowed down. We were doing 60 mph, maybe. I noticed, and decided to go for it. I hit the gear box two down and twisted my right wrist hard. The bike immediately started to drift on the dirt, starting a long slide, as I was waiting for traction. I was standing, typical off road stance. As soon as I felt the rear wheel engage the solid ground beneath the dirt, I steered towards the road and literally took off, landing on the tarmac road, a few feet ahead of my friend’s car. The bike grabbed the hot asphalt like she wanted to own it. And I was faced with another car in front of me, on the same lane.
Split second decision, I veer left and push real hard. The sound of a XTZ 750 engine is a beautiful thing. 70 horse power to 520 pounds wet, 68 Nm of torque. I was hauling ass like a bat out of hell, when I see this other car coming to me, on the left lane. The driver hit his horn like he was possessed, probably peeing himself in the process, and I just swung right between him and the poor bastard I was overtaking. It was a very close shave.
I went ahead, arrived at my friends house and parked, the adrenaline still pumping hard, my heart beating like a wild horse, trying to get off the rush, pacing around the bike, inspecting it, helmet still on, hardly feeling the heat under the sun, inside my full black leather suit. And here they come, a few minutes later. My friend parked on his driveway, got out of the car and walked straight to me. He was fuming and I was just glad my integral helmet was still on my head. He stopped by me, his nose an inch from my visor, and said, “Next time you want to kill yourself, do it where I can’t see it”, and went inside the house.
The girl approached me then, as I was removing my helmet. I looked at her, bracing myself. She cracked the most beautiful smile, lift her eyes to meet mine, and whispered, “That was amazing.”, and she walked to the house, leaving me standing by the bike, holding my helmet, and just before she went in, she turned back, and smiled bright. My heart skipped a beat, and it went to her, regardless of my will.
Paris. Three years later. Night time.
The last visitors were leaving as it was almost closing time for another day at the Eiffel Tower. I was in the crows nest, holding my cellphone, thinking about it, as the City of Lights shined bright in the most perfect Summer night it ever was, or ever will be. And then I was alone. I had been there that morning, but I wanted to see the city I fell in love with from the top of the tower, at night… and make a phone call.
I had the number on speed dial with full roaming digits, because… Me. I pressed the button and held the phone to my ear. The calling signal rang for what seemed an eternity. And then there was this voice… This voice I knew so well, the voice that lived in my head and in my soul for the last three years, that had never whispered to me the words I desperately needed to hear but once, among the thousands of other sweet words we whispered to each other, over the years.
And the voice said, “Hello?” I took a deep breath, “You’ll never guess where I am.”, I said. “No clue. Where?”, she asked. I hadn’t seen her or talked to her in almost a year, since I started college. “Let me tell you what I can see from here.”, I said.
And I told her what I was seeing. Notre Dame, Sacré-Cœur, Le Louvre, Grand Palais, l’Arc de Triomphe, les Champs-Elysées, la Défense… she stopped me. “Oh, my God… You’re at the top of the Eiffel Tower!” Spot on. We talked a few minutes, about Paris and what not. And then she said, “I am glad you are doing well.”, to which I replied, “Good to hear your voice.” And she said “Good night.”, I paused a second. “Good night.” And that was it.
I stared into the void, glimmering blurry lights in my eyes, like the city shared my pain, and then I heard, “Monsieur? Il faut partir maintenant.” I looked at him and nodded. Yes, it was time to go. I went back to the rental car and drove around town aimlessly, then parked by the Moulin Rouge. I wasn’t going there, I just walked. And walked… I got into a bar, located in one of Clichy’s side streets, and sat at the counter. The music was weird, like it didn’t belong. Or maybe it was me who didn’t. Belong. Two young girls sat by me and smiled, and immediately this flower vendor walked to me and pointed at them. He was holding a bouquet of red roses.
“Une rose pour la belle jeune femme?”, he asked, pointing to the girl sitting next to me. I looked at her. She smiled. I got my wallet, picked one of the thorned roses, paid him and left a couple of franc bills on the counter. I nodded at the girl, as I stood from the bar stool. “Je te souhaite une bonne soirée.”, I bid her, she looked at me, unsure of what to say, except “Merci.” and out the door I went, holding the singular rose.
I drove back to the Champs de Mars, parked by the long grassy pathways leading to the Eiffel Tower, and walked towards it, holding the red rose. It’s a long walk. If you ever can, do this at one or two in the morning. Walk through the fields of Mars towards the iron tower; if you are lucky, it will be flooded with light. It’s unforgettable. It was 1995, and Paris had been on alert due to the Algerian terrorist attacks. The tower was heavily guarded, at all times. I saw the GIGN squad at the foot of the tower, fully armored, MP5s at the ready.
They were scattered over the base of the tower, for sure more than I could see, and they watched me approach without moving a muscle. To this day, I believe this could have only happened in Paris. They for sure noticed the red rose I was holding, and without breaking my slow stride, I walked undisturbed to the center of the tower grounds, right under the summit. I stopped and looked up. There were no flood lights or special lighting, just the beautiful starry sky. I felt the eyes of the guards on me, keeping their distance, so I did what I was there to do.
I placed a knee on the ground, set the red rose on it, and looked at the thorned flower for a minute. Then I stood up, took a deep breath, and glancing at the rose one last time, whispered, “Goodbye.”
I turned around and left, the way I came in, with a new slice of my soul torn from me, forever more, still held by the thorns of the red rose that shred it from me. The rose I abandoned under the Eiffel Tower, one Summer night in Paris.
[finis]
Portuguese sentences used.
(*) "Perder Achando", the title of this piece, is a Portuguese sentence that has no literal translation. It can loosely be translated as "Losing by finding", the circumstance of losing something you are looking for the second you find it.
French sentences used.
(*) “Une rose pour la belle jeune femme?” means "A rose for the beautiful young woman?"
(*) “Je te souhaite une bonne soirée.” means "I wish you a good night."
(*) "Merci." means "Thank you."
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