Michelle May

I’m going to go out on a limb here & make a generalized statement that your average French person would not be caught dead shoving food down their throat as they walk down the street, such as many of us in America cities like New York and San Francisco do. Today after walking a glorious 8 miles from Notre Damm to the Eifel tower at dusk/nighttime I found my self invigorated and fully appreciative of being alive & able to travel. On top of that I found my self with a big appetite but no wants whatsoever to go sit in a café by myself & eat. Tamara, my dear friend I am visiting- bless her sweet heart- is preggers- & therefore not willing to eat street food as I have been wanting to. Never mind the pregnancy, I think she is anti-street food cart blanche– something about the boiled hotdogs from the NYC vendors that she grew up with- the most I could gather from her story was that someone told her that people wash their hands in the water that Tamara’s boiled dogs came from.. Who wants a soapy dog? Can you blame her? No matter, I do not have any sort of qualms with eating street food- I do so in Africa, the Middle East, Asia… Europe’s version of “street food: seem so sanitized. I digress- after my walk I was delighted to stumble on a street creperie.

The possibilities were endless: Nutella and banana, fromage & tomato- too much to choose from- I opt for the fromage avec tomato given that this is my main meal of the day. The crepe maker insisted on speaking perfect English offering lines straight outta Top Gun like “Okay dude!” while giving the thumbs up. Thank God he did not try to high five me. About 5 other American girls wait on their crepes. One speaks in French to the man, as he speaks English back to her- clearly she is annoyed that she cannot show off for her visiting college pals. Moving on, the crepe meister pours the batter on the grill, makes a perfectly round thin pancake- just so– he then puts on an all too chewy fromage and adds freshly diced tomatoes. “Salt & pepper?” he asks… but of course monsieur! He folds this unbelievable precious yet substantial being in half- places it in a paper holder, and gives me a paper towel. I dive right in, taking a bite just as he says “come again soon” …I make an about face on my right heal. I know that in order to make love to this crepe like I want to that I need a bit of privacy. If I was home, I would not use such discretion. But here, in the refined and elegant city of lights, I try to put my best foot forward. Under the bridge I see a bench. I go sit on it. Out of the corner of my eye notice a perfectly ripened yellow banana on the bench but am too busy tearing back the paper wrapper so that I can proceed in devouring the second half of the crepe.

I vaguely start to notice that I am in a bit of an unsightly place- rubbish is everywhere, lighting is nowhere to be found, and no one is trafficking the area I am sitting in. What a perfect hiding spot to continue my affair with this crepe I think. Then two short men walk up. Very short men. Midgets. Even though there is another bench, they come to sit on my bench. Not wanting to let them see any sort of rise out of me, I simply scoot to the one side of the bench, still pulling excessive amounts of gooey cheese from the crepe into my mouth. They notice the banana and ask in French if is mine. I tell then “no merci.” I glance down while I bite into succulent warm piece of tomato. What do these men have with them? A granny cart with a few old leather boxes, held together with duct tape.  There are all sorts of duct taped gages and knobs on these boxes- and some  sides look like they have screens on them. I am so intrigued that I actually stop eating and turn my head to look closer. My brain tries to figure out what on earth these boxes are- surely they are crazy people I think. They must think these boxes are some sort of transition radio to communicate with aliens. I am sure of it! Then I see that one of the men has a violin in a plastic bag, and the other has an accordion strapped to his back, like backpack.

Oh- my bad: they are just speakers- not UFO transistor radios (who’s the crazy one again??). I should have thought of that. I notice a plastic cup taped to the side of one of their speakers. I feel bad for thinking ill of them- my blood sugar has also adjusted to “normal” so my guilt kicks in and I wish I could have tipped them- even though they did not sing- or play. They were polite. I ask them to take the banana & they do. The relatively taller fellow starts to bite into the banana- shockingly, peel and all- as they walk away to their next gig.

.