La Seine and Cigarettes

I was buried in the arms of a fat, sobbing Frenchman. A few tears in my eyes. His tears flowed not unlike La Seine. His spectacles were fogged, occupying only a tiny proportion of his round, now red face. Some people watched the odd scene unfold. Here I stood vertically cradling my host father. Him gasping for breath between babbles of indistinguishable French. Barely visible behind his bulbous figure, at some obscure little train station in the countryside. Signalling towards her dad, my host sister, in broken English quipped, “Do you understand what he say?”. I nodded unconvincingly, fully unaware of his words. Wanting to depart without a painful translation.

A few weeks prior, I sat tentatively on Europe’s fastest train as it glided toward Macon, central France. The lady beside me had not made eye contact since Paris. My mind was as blurry as the passing scenery. I sat in introspection, uncertain of why I had agreed to live with strangers for a ‘cultural experience’. Over the speaker I heard the soothing French voice call my stop. A bleeping noise resounded, waking me from my day dream and sending me closer to my new family. A family I had never met.

Leo was my host father who enjoyed engaging with me in games of complicated sign language which often transformed into laughter. He was 6 foot tall and almost as round. Whenever he greeted me it would be with a sloppy French kiss on both cheeks. Cecile was tall and dark and spoke enough English for us to chat about French versus Australian boys. Juliette was her older sister. Her presence was always accompanied by a small, grey cloud of smoke. A cigarette was permanently glued in her mouth. On multiple occasions she had offered me one of her precious death sticks, to which a 14 year old did not know enough French to politely decline. I learnt to dodge her whenever I saw her coming down the hallway with her box of cigarettes tightly wedged into her pocket.

My scarf was still slightly damp from Leo’s tears as the train gently pulled away from the station. I leaned over to the bin and placed my French dictionary in it. I didn’t want to translate Leo’s parting words; with dictionary at hand the temptation was too great. I took one last look at my family before they disappeared from view, they had swollen eyes but the same mischievous grins they wore when I arrived. Large Leo shrunk as the train edged toward Paris. The lady beside me noticed my tears and offered me a tissue.