The Saga of Half-Stash

Alice, Karolyn, and Me, ready to take over the Perche.
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Dear France, Please stop your Tom Foolery. Sincerely, me.

In my advertising and marketing classes in college, there was one golden rule: “Perspective is Reality.” While I find this to be quite true, it amuses me endlessly to know how much perspective changes. Does this mean reality changes? I guess it does- fancy that! For instance, it amazes me how quickly you can adapt- or attempt to adapt- when you displace yourself (be it voluntarily or otherwise), in new, different, and often odiferous surroundings (one my fellow American assistants often comments that ‘France smells like peeeeee!’ in a proper Ralph Wiggum voice.) It seems some of the most challenging experiences can morph into some of the most amusing- especially when your perspective is in hindsight.

"you may walk past a hedge and feel the end of a pinky finger trailing down your arm..."

I have been living in France for two months, and I must admit am not lacking in amusing tales. Some are awkward, some embarrassing, and others are just bizarre, but I accept it as being the odd personality of France being pitted one-on-one against my own quirky personality and watching the sparks fly. Here is one of my favorite ditties to quell your curiosity. I have many in my arsenal, that have helped me bond with my surroundings, make new friends, and have a treasure of stories to look back when I need a really good laugh.

The Saga of Half-stash

On my first Saturday night in Nogent le Rotrou, Bar St. Pol, situated in the northeastern corner of Place St. Pol (yes someone was using the creative side of their brain when they coined that name) was having their 7^th anniversary party. And like all small-town French bars having a 7^th anniversary party, Bar St. Pol decided to celebrate by staying open until the wee hours of the night (or at least past 10) and entertain the lively patrons with a Brazilian drum line. Yes, you read correctly- a Brazilian drum line. The line consisted of 12 drummers with, small, medium and gargantuan drums and they playing at eardrum-splitting volume.

Karolyn, a fellow American from St. Louis teaching English at the middle schools, Alice, an English girl from Nuneaton (“It was Eaton until the Nuns came…”) teaching English at the high school, and I made our way through the crowd, past the mind-numbing drum cadence, and into the 500 sq foot saloon. We squeezed our way up to the small corner bar and ordered drinks. Rubbing elbows with French people in various states of intoxication was amusing and frustrating, being as I was half deaf from the drums, and trying to understand a drunken person speaking a language I don’t understand perfectly in ideal hearing conditions, wasn’t very conducive to casual conversation, but Karolyn managed to strike up a conversation with a man named Greg.

Greg was a very slight man, with tight black jeans, droopy eyes and really good taste in Champaign. I happen to know this first hand because the first bottle got sprayed into the back of my head- not the most practical way to drink it, especially the expensive sort, but what did we know… We were standing innocently enough, I was turned screaming a conversation with Alice when I heard Karolyn yelp and felt a shower of bubbly soak my hair and back of my jacket. I jumped out of the way and Alice got the remainder down the front. “A friend” of Greg’s had shaken the bottle, and sprayed it directly in Karolyn’s face! It was a lovely “welcome the Americans by trying to blind them with alcohol” toast (Alice begrudgingly is always called American because they can’t tell the difference in her accent).

After being soaked Greg gallantly asked us if we wanted to go see where he lived. “I live in a beautiful refurbished monastery up the block,” and being as we were soaked, deaf, and can’t get out of Europe without seeing every monastery in existence, we agreed and squirted out of bar St. Pol.

Greg was true to his word, his apartment beautiful, and we sat in the living room, drinking excellent Champaign and enjoying the lack of people in hats pounding on drums. We chatted in French, listened to music, and it was pleasant enough, until… the clock struck midnight.

Greg, an unattractive, yet previously pleasant person, with expensive Champaign and a lovely, once-sacred apartment, suddenly morphed into a French man on a mission. It was like something clicked in his brain (well maybe bubbled) and he was off. I had luckily chosen a chair, but Karolyn and Alice were sitting closely on a small love seat. Greg hopped up out of his chair, walked over to the loveseat and wedged himself like a shoehorn between Karolyn and Alice. We all sat there in awkward silence, silently saying “What the heck is he doing?” He then proceeded to stare oddly at each of us in turn, swiveling his head dramatically. I imagined he was trying to use some kind of heat seeking sixth sense to see which of us was possibly drunk enough to not think he was ridiculous. Considering he had more than invaded their personal space and sat with rounded shoulders scrunched on a couch made for 1 and a half normal sized people, Alice had scooted up almost onto the arm of the loveseat and was now sitting about 5 inches higher than the tiny Greg. When his stare of seduction would circle back around to her, his face was so near her shoulder she would recoil about 10 inches. From my vantage point it was true comedy and I had a very hard time containing the laughter. He even made the comment that he really liked her ‘posture.’ Granted, balancing on the arm of a loveseat will boost your posture a bit, but it wasn’t exactly intentional.

He then proceeded to fall asleep a couple of times, then pop back into consciousness to spurt a random and usually inappropriate sentence. We would just stare at each other and silently communicate things like “Weirdo!” Karolyn actually got the worst of it when Greg pulled out his secret weapon… He popped into consciousness once more and began stroking Karolyn’s knee with the pinky finger of his left hand. His pinky finger! I almost fell out of the chair. It looked like a pale worm squirming on a hook. I don’t think I can think of a more horrible and oooogy cliché! It is an act of affection that I consider beyond cheesy when it is a man you are interested in, much less one that has just set up shop in your personal space without invitation. She hopped up, pretending to need a bathroom break, and we decided that was the opportune time to escape. He tried to use his powers of persuasion again by running to the kitchen at the speed of light and grabbing yet another bottle, trying to bribe us to stay, but by then we had had our fill of Champaign, Greg and his squirmy pinky. He accepted his defeat and bid us a good night with a wet bisou (the French cheek - cheek kiss greeting and farewell) with direct lip to cheek connection; it is generally accepted to kiss the air when you don’t really know someone, not the skin… with slobber…ewww cringe.

We reveled in our freedom and as soon as we reached the gate of his building and burst out into the street, the three of us laughed until our sides hurt. We sounded like a bunch of teenage girls, but for me to convey how truly ridiculous this man was is beyond even me.

As we made our way home, Alice made an interesting and very accurate observation. Greg seemed to be growing a beard throughout the night. When we left Bar St. Pol, it was not visible. When we were in his apartment it seemed more obvious. But as we left it was very apparent. I shook it off as the change differences in lighting, but now I am not so sure. So why didn’t we call him ‘Quick Beard’ or “Monsieur Barbe?” But that is not even the weirdest part...

“Did you notice he only had half of a moustache?” she said. Actually, I had thought the exact same thing multiple times, but again thought it was just my vantage point, and for fear of being molested by his small toe, I avoided direct eye contact with him most of the time. We all exclaimed we had seen the same thing as we took breaths between fits of laughter, and we christened the very strange and persistent Greg: Half-stash.

Two months later, we are still laughing about that night, but the legacy of Half-stash has evolved. Half-stash, is now not only the name of a person, it is a verb- if someone is staring at you oddly, they are Half-stashing you. It is now also a point of origin for finding things in town- “Where is the Kebab? It’s up near Half-stashes place”- a place we rarely wander, he is the type that would take pleasure in springing out of a bush, popping up behind a stone wall or you may walk past a hedge and feel the end of a pinky finger trailing down your arm...

I believe that all the people you meet in life have a purpose. They guide you along your way, give you realizations and help you find perspective. And I must admit that Half-stash, even with all his quirks, did have a purpose. He helped me make two new friends, bonding us over a strange and hilarious common experience. And for that, I give you two pinkies up Half-stash. Way up.