Berthillion on St. Michel

I cannot pronounce some English, most Spanish & almost ALL of the French language. Shay Youngblood's (Black Girl in Paris) book didn't offer a very good tutorial for those in search of her book in real time. Monmarte in my head sounds like MONA MAR TEE. Nelson (crazy dope photographer of Penmanship's de-con-struct images) thought this was pretty friggin funny. So funny he asked me to repeat it for the duration of the day. He says Mademoiselle like the movies. Orders the food from "le menu" like the movies. But adds his own Harlem flair "The French be doing it." As in Swag on The Seine (watch ya grubby paws. That's the title of the new book...Chill copyright infringers). He speaks eloquently about American superiority and world travels, his Morrocan Tour Goddess and his paintings. We sit in front of the St. Michel station, atop the Latin Quarters and blocks away from the Cathedral of Notre Dame, debating the creation of peach champagne and 9 Euro (that's almost 16 CLAMS for us Americans) worth of ice cream!

His name is Herve (pic coming soon) he is the host of the outdoor cafe which sold Nelson (those pics coming soon too) and I a couple of bowls of the amazing (& expensive) berthillion ice cream...

He is a jokester, this Herve (pronounced Hervie). He laughs at the idea of women not talking (an inside joke about my mispronounciation of all things French & my promise to remain quiet until I can speak English). He then adds he visited New York with his love. He drove across the Brooklyn Bridge then up to Harlem for good measure.


"It was nice" he offered before adding, "I also lost my girlfriend in your city." I say "lost like mislocated?" He laughs - again just as jovial as the mute moment "No. We broke up." I blink. Nelson's smile is frozen. And Herve is bubbling over with promise.

"It is ok" he shrugs. "I will go back and get another one, eh!"

Something about the way the French love so passionately and then not at all.

Over 70% of the people walking the streets of Paris, right now, are holding hands. Those that aren't – are enroute to meet someone to hold hands with. And the other small percentage is filled with people like me. Looking longingly at the fingers of strangers. The stroke of a lover's back. The rub of her neck. The pinch against his cheek before kissing the spot that reddened with love. Its so syrupy thick, one might think it was a conspiracy to make the solo runners feel like they were in a rat race for the shiny prize of a lonely nothing. And then there is Herve.

The man with the grey suit and squinty blue eyes. The man that spoke English with a hint of French (nothing like all the Z's portrayed in the movie Green Card)and a personality of quick wit. The single Frenchman that was prepared to holiday in the City that never sleeps, so that he could teach her body of concrete kisses how to hold a lover's hand properly.



The idea of forgetting about love was too foreign for words.

I wonder when the French taught their citizens that trick...