As a teenager, did you think you had a pretty clear vision of what life as an adult would look like? I did - the wedding, the kids, the house, the weekend barbeques, and perfect holiday photo cards. But at 35, my life was not the picture perfect one I had envisioned. Squirming my way out of an abusive relationship with my alcoholic girlfriend and anticipating spending my spring break chaperoning a bunch of middle school aged students on a trip to France, I had no more dreams of a happy life. Then I met Jeanmi, the bus driver, who made our trip through Provence, the Loire Valley, and Paris so much better and who offered me an escape from life as I knew it even after the trip ended. I just needed to decide if leaving everything I knew to move to a village in the French Alps was destiny showing me the way to true bliss or yet another poorly thought out decision like so many others I'd recently made.
As a teenager, did you think you had a pretty clear vision of what life as an adult would look like? I did - the wedding, the kids, the house, the weekend barbeques, and perfect holiday photo cards. But at 35, my life was not the picture perfect one I had envisioned. Squirming my way out of an abusive relationship with my alcoholic girlfriend and anticipating spending my spring break chaperoning a bunch of middle school aged students on a trip to France, I had no more dreams of a happy life. Then I met Jeanmi, the bus driver, who made our trip through Provence, the Loire Valley, and Paris so much better and who offered me an escape from life as I knew it even after the trip ended. I just needed to decide if leaving everything I knew to move to a village in the French Alps was destiny showing me the way to true bliss or yet another poorly thought out decision like so many others I'd recently made.
Trudging down the jetway at the Nice airport, I contrasted ridiculously with the French women strutting past in their stylish outfits and meticulous make-up. Before landing, I hadn't even bothered to brush my hair. Had I known I was about to meet my future husband, I want to believe I would have dressed differently. A low-cut blouse, most likely. Fitted trousers or an above-the-knee pencil skirt. Flattering heels or wedges. Instead, I wore baggy drawstring pants, an oversized cotton sweater, and worst of all, clunky, black leather pockmarked slip-ons with thick rubber soles.
Iād always prided myself on being able to slide into France unnoticed by not standing out as an American. As Iād prepared for this trip, though, I must have been distracted, going over, for the thousandth time, how life had not played out as I'd imagined it should have. At seventeen, Iād planned everything. Wedding at twenty-five. First kid at twenty-seven. First house at twenty-eight. A second kid and the beginning of a brilliant career would follow in quick succession. I pictured my life with my partner, the two kids, a dog, a house with a deck. Weād host weekend barbecue parties and send holiday cards with pictures from our family vacations.
My cousins had all done it. College friends had done it. How many registry lists had I picked up in Macyās and Target before heading off to the kitchen or home goods departments, noting items to add to my own list someday? How many times had I tried to catch that bouquet flying over the brideās shoulder, sure that Iād be next to spend months fretting about bridal parties, cake flavors, and wedding venues?
Life at thirty-five did not resemble my plan at all.
My home life, for one, was a complete failure. I shared a house with my ex-girlfriend, Meredith, who only answered to Mere, an alcoholic line cook with aspirations of being the next lead drummer for a heavy metal band. She wasnāt a terrible person, really, except when she drank, which ended up being all the time. When we first met at a bar, I assumed sheād just had a few too many. Too late, I realized she always had too many.
Home involved her yelling and me either yelling back or cowering in tears. I learned to accept and then excuse the alcoholism and the violence that came with it. I grew more willing to pardon being hurt and abused, too ashamed to admit to the toxicity of our relationship. I gave up trying to fix her. I gave up trying to have any control at our house. I gave up believing Iād find happiness. I gave up a lot.
So, coming off the jetway in Nice in March 2004, eight hours after taking off from Dulles airport in Virginia, I traipsed behind my thirteen screeching and giggling middle school students as we made our way toward baggage claim. Mike, my colleague, Richard, the parent, and I followed after them on this first day of a ten-day school trip to France together. The kidsā volume gave our whole group away as American. They didnāt care at all about sliding in unnoticed.
We passed through immigration and collected our bags. Our next step, finding our tour guide, didnāt turn out to be too hard. His bold EF TOURS sign and red jacket helped us to identify him among the sparse group of people waiting to greet friends and family. Tall and smiley, he greeted us with reassuring enthusiasm that made me like him right away.
He invited us to sit so he could welcome us to France and introduce himselfā"RenĆ©-Jean, but you can call me RJ". Our tour was comprised of groups from four different schools and we were the first bunch to arrive, he explained. "Since we don't want you to have to wait in the airport, you'll have the day to visit and discover Nice on your own before meeting at the drop-off point and driving, finally, to the hotel." He made this sound like such a bonus that even I got excited until I realized this meant eight hours until a shower or a nap and being relieved from chaperoning the thirteen kids after a mostly sleepless night in the plane.
RJ suggested we all use the bathroom before heading out to the bus. We gladly left him in charge of watching over our bags.
After washing my hands, I dug a Kleenex out of my purse to dab my face. Jetlag and the warmth of the airport had me sweating already. Though RJ wore a jacket, he had informed us that it would be warmāhigh 70sāin Nice today. I pulled my hair into a rough ponytail and attached it with the elastic I always carried in my bag. Staring at myself in the mirror, I saw I still came across as sleep deprived and like a four-year-old had dressed me, but it was an improvement. The girls checked themselves and each other in the mirror and readjusted their own hair and make-up as they waited on me. I swiped some eyeliner on and, finally ready, gave a nod. We turned in unison and headed back out to RJ and the rest of the group.
The thirteen middle schoolers were so very awake. They took up their uproarious goofiness as we walked through the terminal to the parking lot. Just after exiting, though, RJ stopped and gathered our whole group to him, signaling for them to quiet down.
"We're about to meet Jeanmi,ā RJ explained. "This is his bus, and he has some rules I need to tell you. On the bus, no yelling. Stay seated whenever the bus is moving. No gum. No food. No drinks. No horseplay. Got it?"
Wide eyes peered, heads nodded, gum was swallowed. Soft mumbling replaced the screeching and giggling. Everyone slowed their step as we marched on toward the bus. I didnāt quite believe that RJ or the bus driver had much experience with middle school kids, American middle school kids anyway. I anticipated this might not go well.
Jeanmi, he had said. What kind of name was that? I wondered to myself. It didn't even sound French. Jeanmi? My fears about this not going so well were reinforced when Jeanmi turned in our direction and I got a better view of him.
He seemed of average height and about my age. Fit, wearing slim-cut jeans and well-shined dress shoes. His leather coat reached mid-thigh. His sunglasses were pushed up on his head. He just kind of stared as we got closer. He did not smile. As the kids and I watched, he unabashedly took a long drag of a cigarette and then let it drop to the ground. Without lowering his gaze, he rubbed the still smoking butt out with the toe of his shoe. He put both hands in his coat pockets and gave an audible sigh. He looked like a badass.
I remember the summer of 2004 due to the massive amount of cicadas I encountered while visiting some family of mine in Maryland. Obviously, I did not have the same experience of that year or the years that followed as Sarrazin, but I do remember this pointed detail. While it was minor to some, it helped to put me in the direct setting of what was happening in this memoir. Could it be that I did have something in common after all? I needed to keep reading and so I kept turning the pages.
I soon found out that I was only a teenager finishing high school that summer and the author was in the middle of their thirties. As someone who now finds themselves in that age bracket, I can understand why things were perceived by the author. I often question a lot of things about my life and whether or not things would have played out differently if I had taken a different bus. There was a bit of difficulty in keeping up with all of the various people and places in the life of the author, but overall it was more than manageable. I do think things could have been slightly shorter in places, but I value the detail provided about the various situations.
Overall, as a memoir, it is something that is more important to the writer than the reader. If the author is happy with how things have come out then who am I to complain. Instead, I rejoice in knowing that someone took the time to gather their thoughts, compile them into a coherent string of words, and publish their story. I will never fault someone for what are my preferences when it comes to telling their story.
I highly enjoyed this read and could not wait to keep the pages turning to see what was going to happen next in Sarrazin's life.