Dating the Counterfeit – Chapter 1: La Vie Est Belle… or so I Thought

Chapter 1: La Vie Est Belle… or so I thought

I’ve never had a birthday party. I’ve never seen the importance of celebrating life. Especially when life ends. I thought with time I’d begin to enjoy something that would one day end. But then, at the beginning of university, my mother’s life ended. I soon celebrated the end of my sister on the beginning of my 20th year of life. Meeting you made me so nervous. Scared. Increasingly sad. I knew the inevitable would happen. The end.

On our first date, I was almost certain that the gilets jaunes found the end before me. I recall myself wearing olive green skinny jeans, a cotton Colgate-white off-the-shoulder shirt, and clear plastic heels that imitated Cinderella’s glass slippers. I ironically smelled like Estée Lauder’s La Vie Est Belle. My face was glowing with MAC, Fenty, and diminishing hope. I had never been so nervous in my life. I sat. I stood. I lay in front of the mirror for hours. Spending every half hour blotting my face. Cursing the very French drugstore where I bought my four-euro setting spray. Who knew nervousness could create so much oil? Rethinking every second if I should just redo my makeup. But… I couldn’t risk not being ready when you called.

On August 29th, after 12 hours, I was able to stand. Run. Explore. It was my first day in France—or any country that was not about to build a wall to keep Mexicans out. As an international studies major, I am obliged to study abroad my junior year in college. I have taken enough French courses in previous years to feel confident enough to choose to live in France for four months. I remember ecstatically telling everyone from home that I was studying at a triple-accredited business school in France. All of my recent pretentious posts on Instagram focused on my predicted accomplishments in France. Living in the clouds, the world became my oyster. Being the very best version of myself. Living my best life. Every 21st-century cliché was my motto, and no one could stop me. No one but life.

On August 30th, I became aware that Paris is a city, not a country. I was hoping for the glamorous life that the media portrayed. I prepared elevator speeches in case I ever bumped into the man who made the song N**gas in Paris. I had already learned the Champs-Élysées song and owned berets in all sorts of colors. Two months prior, I went on a three-month body cleanse in order to be thin enough to look like a Parisian. But I was tricked and lied to about where I would be living. I knew I would be living in Toulouse, France, but no one told me that I would be living in Toulouse. Toulouse is nothing like Paris. No one cared about fashion. I did not meet any celebrities. I was not prepared for brittle brick sidewalks that laughed at my Miami heels. I was not prepared for French women who stared viciously at my Atlanta lashes. Nor was I prepared for my host brother to sexually assault me.

As a study abroad student, I am given a host family to live with. I met my host mother first. She smiled extremely hard when she met me, revealing teeth a bit blackened from excess cigarette smoking. I smiled back, revealing my last set of aligners in my mouth. I’d smile back at anyone willing to expose the very thing that may repel others from loving them. I spent week one out of two in my final set of aligners, and that was my first time willing to smile with teeth. So I did not judge her. I respected her. My Paris fantasies sort of caused me to slightly overpack. My host mom called her husband because we could not carry three 50-pound bags ourselves. I was so confused about why we were walking home in the first place. All the other students’ parents were driving them home. Where was the Mercedes-Benz taxi that Paris was supposed to have? Oh wait, wrong country.

He was so excited to meet me. “Bisous… Bisous,” I received kisses on both cheeks. I finally met my host dad. He passed the teeth check. He failed the scent test. No worries, I’d just light my room with non-cigarette-scented candles. After walking eight flights of stairs, I made it into my new home. Oh wow, it was filled with art and furniture.
In this next sentence, take every word literally: Oh wow, it was filled with art and furniture. There was so much beauty everywhere. I loved it all—just not everywhere. I finally entered my room. I’ve never smiled so hard in my life. I tried to spare my host parents’ feelings, and my tears, behind that smile. I thanked them for welcoming me into their home. Then, I threw myself onto the twin-sized mattress that was held up by an inch of wood. I quickly found their Wi-Fi modem and stole their Wi-Fi password (do not judge me. It was my first day in France, and I had not yet activated my phone). I then used Snapchat to FaceTime both of my best friends at once. With all my strength, I pretended to be in love with this whole situation. I convinced myself that I came for the French experience. That I needed to fully commit myself to actually getting to know this Toulousain culture. My strength deserted me as soon as my friends asked to see my room. I was not ready to confront my discomfort. After about a minute of begging, I caved in. They saw the dusty window that takes four steps to open and close. They saw the dusty floors, shelves, and sheets. Why was there so much dang dust? However, my strength disappeared at the sight of what was meant to be my closet. It was a clothes rack with eleven hangers. How was I supposed to live my Parisian fashionista lifestyle with eleven hangers? I cried as if I were even among the privileged in America.

It was 8 p.m. Common time for dinner. I was given several glasses of wine, which I happily accepted. I had two years of binge drinking experience in college so far. So two and a half glasses was nothing. My host mother had been drinking all afternoon. My host father was on his third glass as he introduced me to his son. His son sat across from me. He himself sat close to me. His son was this average-looking French white male, who was extremely nice. His father even nicer. His son had just come back from the military but was soon to return. As my host father refilled my wine glass that was only half empty, my host brother explained how happy he was to meet me before he had to go back to camp. He gave me the insider tips on all the great bars and clubs that college students go to on Thursdays. Well, it was Thursday, and I needed some hard liquor to replenish my tears.

Later that night, I texted some friends who are also in the same study abroad program. We decided to go out to a bar that was throwing a party for international students. I thought this would be a great time to bond and meet some new friends. That night, I got fine. I am talking about a mixture of Miami sexy, Atlanta heat, and some of that Parisian class. I wore a fitted little black tube dress that showed enough clavicle to cause chocolate to melt on sight. I wore open-toed black heels that exaggerated how toned my calves were. I topped it off with a long, silk, dark green jacket that had everyone wanting to see what’s underneath. As I walked out of my new home, everyone stared. My host mom. My host dad. My host brother. Each for their own reason. My host dad awkwardly and accidentally screamed, “Wow, tu es belle!” I replied to everyone with a smile, then proceeded to run down eight flights of stairs to catch my Uber.

I was definitely the star of the night. The bouncers did not charge me a cover fee, nor did they check my ID. The bartender gave me two free shots of tequila as I waited for my friends. When my friends arrived, we had a great time. We sang every American song that came on. We danced carefree with strangers all night. We happily spoke our immature French. My day had gotten ten times better. Upon uploading cute Instagram stories so that all my friends in America could see how much fun I was having in France, I received a direct message from my host brother. All he wanted to know was where I was and if I wanted to join him. I immediately sent him my address. Everyone was so excited to meet my host brother. We all were excited to make a new friend who was a Toulousain insider. He arrived around 3 a.m.—three hours after I sent him my location. When he was only ten minutes away. My night was over. I was ready to go home. Just his luck, he arrived four minutes before my Uber arrived. I allowed him to ride home with me. Seeing all of the beautiful monuments in Toulouse led me to ask so many questions. Somewhere between buzzed-me over-enthusiastically asking touristic questions, he felt okay putting his hand on my thigh. I was drunk, but not that drunk. So I removed my host brother’s drunken hand from my thigh. Non-relational incest was not something I was willing to commit.

Thirteen minutes later, we were in front of the building doors of the place we lived. He was so close to me. His breath reeked of fermented beverages when he asked me if I wanted to go dancing. I knew what he was doing, and I wasn’t having it. I angrily pulled these heavy Roman-style doors. I was no longer buzzed. He followed me closely, trying to hold a conversation. I refused to speak. He grabbed my arm in an attempt to keep me in the dark. I’ve never been so frightened. I did not know what would happen to me if I broke this twig-like man in half. Where I’m from, lawmakers are afraid of women of my color and strength. I would be punished for protecting myself. He begged me for a kiss. My mind began to scramble for an answer. Would giving him what he wants ultimately protect me? Or would it just subjugate me to four months of harassment far worse than a kiss? I stood my ground and forcefully walked to the locked gate. My long acrylics were slowing me down. I couldn’t punch the codes in quick enough to keep him behind. He entered as I entered. He walked behind me for eight flights of stairs, still harassing me for one kiss. He repeatedly said, “Just one kiss… You’re so beautiful… Just one kiss.” He never fell behind by more than two steps. I soon regretted wearing heels. Once we reached the front of the apartment door, he desperately leaned in for a kiss. At that moment, all I wanted to do was push him over the railing. I spared his life with my words. I threatened him. I told him that if he advanced at me one more time, I’d tell his parents. A threat I knew to be a lie. How can I, a girl who has yet to spend 24 hours in my host parents’ household, tell them that their son is a perv? I felt so trapped. Even if I did tell my story, how was I going to explain this story to myself? Did this happen because of the way I dressed? Did I unintentionally lead my host brother on?