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Wednesday, July 24, 2024

The summer would soon be drawing to a close, and we were on our way to Paris for the vacation of a lifetime. We’d been invited by a longtime friend – a professor of music known the world over for his restoration of centuries-old musical instruments. He also sold hand-made harpsichords that he designed and built in his own workshop. Thanks to his unique skills, Stephan Larouche had amassed enough money to live comfortably, if not extravagantly, in the Latin Quarter. He had a large apartment directly above his workshop, with a generous guest apartment in the attic space.

He invited us to attend the Paris Olympics with him at his expense. He would house us and keep us well-fed. He’d obtained tickets for us to attend the opening and closing ceremonies, in addition to many of the major events. Even when we weren’t attending the sporting events, there was so much to see and do in Paris. The only thing we needed to pay for was our airline tickets. With all of the frequent flyer miles we’d accumulated, we decided to splurge on business class.

We started our adventure by flying to Detroit on a 50-seat regional jet. We had a two-hour layover before our flight to Paris was scheduled to depart. Because we traveled a lot as part of our jobs, we often caught connecting flights in Detroit. Thus we had more than a passing familiarity with McNamara Terminal and all the restaurants and businesses that could be found there. With time to kill, we sat down for a sushi dinner at what was one of our favorite Japanese restaurants – not just at airports, but anywhere.

Sitting together and enjoying a nice dinner as we waited for our flight to Paris, I couldn’t help but reflect on our lives. As busy as we might be on vacation in Paris, it would be the calm before the storm. I was a department chair at a highly-respected private university. Although I always worked through the summer, my only responsibility was in supervising graduate students working on dissertations in my lab. There weren’t any courses to teach during the summer session.

Although I was an editor for one of the major journals in my field, only a trickle of manuscripts had been submitted for publication. Most people were taking time off for summer vacations, and wouldn’t make their submissions until fall. Then my time of complacency would come to an end as a seemingly endless pile of manuscripts populated my Inbox. Finding people to review so many papers at once was always a challenge.

There would be budgets to revise and syllabi to review. I could look forward to the endless committee meetings that always accompanied the start of a new term. Fortunately, most of the courses I taught were at the graduate level. However, all professors were expected to teach at least one undergraduate course per year and, as a department chair, I led by example. Not everyone did.

My university had a reputation for cutting-edge research, but I was under no illusion that we were Ivy League. Our faculty included some of the top people in their respective fields. We had numerous publications in top journals. Our applications for research grants were highly competitive. We were well-funded in spite of stagnant federal dollars, but it was never enough. We had multiple defense contracts that more than made up for the funding gap from other government agencies.

More importantly, our technology transfer office had done an outstanding job of turning innovations into patents. We partnered with small businesses and corporate giants alike to bring the best ideas to fruition. Private industry had become skittish about investing in high-risk research. They couldn’t afford to invest in projects that might not offer any payback for years, if ever.

Private industry was more than willing to let the best and brightest minds in academia do all of their research and take all of that risk. We didn’t have stockholders to worry about, nor were short-term profits a consideration. Forget about failure not being an option; it’s a necessary outcome of bleeding edge research. Tech transfer was now our biggest revenue source. Were it not for that, it’s doubtful the University would’ve survived.

Although we offered an education second to none, we weren’t exactly at the top of most prospective students’ lists. We didn’t have the cultural attractions and nightlife of a larger city, nor did we have any major-league sports teams. Our skies were nearly as cloudy as those in the Pacific Northwest, but we lacked the mountains or the ocean. We were on a Great Lake, but it was too cold for swimming or most other forms of outdoor recreation. Worse still, it was the source of copious lake-effect snow in the winter.

The city was well past its heyday. Once the home of major industry, the University was now the city’s biggest employer. We’d once been home to a company whose name was synonymous with an entire sector of the world economy. Their products could be found in virtually every household, not to mention in offices, laboratories, studios, hospitals and schools around the world.

However, the world moved on, and they didn’t. Technology had made their products obsolete outside of a few remaining niche applications. They’d long ago restructured to emerge as a much smaller company, still burdened though by what was surely to be a future superfund site.

In the meantime, the city’s other major employers moved their corporate headquarters to more attractive locations, leaving the University to pick up the slack. We had the feel of a rust belt city. There were the highly-educated people who worked at the University and at a nearby technical college, and there was everyone else.

The one bright spot was the University’s music school, which was renowned. It was the music school that kept me there. That was where my husband worked. Indeed, we met when I undertook a postdoctoral fellowship in Paris. He was finishing an apprenticeship in Stephan’s workshop at the time. My project involved using high-resolution, high frame rate ultrasonic imaging to reconstruct the mechanical properties that underlay disease and injury. It was a risky project with a potentially huge payoff. It never panned out, but Chris and I sure did.

So we were flying to Paris, the ‘City of Lights’, the place where it all began…

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Twenty Year Earlier

Taking my first transatlantic flight was certainly a new experience, but it was nothing compared to what I presumed lay ahead. I’d just completed my dissertation and with a PhD in hand, I was looking forward to spending the next year pursuing a postdoctoral fellowship at the University of Paris. It was the opportunity of a lifetime.

There was just one minor problem. I didn’t speak French. Oh, I could understand some of it, but I’d never studied it. My pronunciation was abysmal. I had taken Latin in high school but neither my undergraduate nor graduate degrees had a language requirement, so I opted not to take any foreign languages in college.

Try as I might, whenever I tried to speak a little French – what little I knew of it – what came out wasn’t French. It sounded okay to me, but no one else could understand it. I’d been told multiple times not even to try. It was easier for my French colleagues to speak with me in English. It was a language they barely knew, but they could speak it better than I could speak garbled French. C’est la vie!

So why in the world did I apply for a fellowship in Paris when there were hundreds of fellowships available in places where English was spoken? That was easy. The lab where I’d be working had the fastest ultrasound scanner in the world. As with high-speed photography, ultra-fast, high-resolution ultrasonic imaging could capture things inside the human body that happened too quickly to be seen by any other imaging modality.

It was so fast, it could even visualize the propagation of vibrations and low-frequency shear waves. Coupled with the new science of radiation force imaging, it had the potential to visualize the elastic properties of soft tissues such as the heart, the liver, blood vessels and skeletal muscle. It could do so in microscopic detail and in real time. It could revolutionize the way we look at biomechanics. At least I hoped it would.

Getting off the Boeing 747 at Charles de Gaulle Airport, my legs felt unsteady, as if they might collapse under me as I made my way down the jetway. Even though I’d traveled enough by air to know how little space there was between rows, I didn’t realize just how confining that lack of legroom could be on an overnight flight. I was almost six feet tall and my legs just didn’t fit.

I’d hoped to get some sleep on the flight, but being unable to stretch my legs, coupled with the constant interruptions from the flight attendants and crew, meant sleep was truly the impossible dream. It didn’t help that I had a middle seat, either. Getting off the plane, I wasn’t just jet lagged. I was exhausted, achy, and surprisingly hungry. It wasn’t that they didn’t serve dinner or breakfast on the plane, but the meals weren’t very satisfying.

Following the crowd, we were funneled onto one moving walkway after another. One of them was in a transparent tube that passed through a circular atrium with many such tubes. That was pretty cool architecture. Then I joined a long line of passengers waiting to pass through passport control. At least my line was shorter than the one for those with EU passports, but it moved so much more slowly. I would’ve thought that in 2004, there’d be a way to automate the whole process.

When I got to the front of the line and was beckoned forward, the passport agent asked me a shitload of questions. Because I would be living in Paris for the next year, I couldn’t just enter the country as a tourist. I needed a visa. Being a post-doc fellow was very different from being a student. A student could remain in France on a student visa almost indefinitely, so long as they were enrolled as a full-time student.

A fellow was considered to be a guest worker and was subject to all the EU regulations regarding employment. I had to have a temporary resident visa as well as a local sponsor and a work permit. The agent wanted to know the terms of my employment, where I would be living and what I would do after the year was up. Of course I had answers to all of her questions, so why did she make me feel guilty?

After exiting passport control, I bypassed the luggage carousels and headed straight to the line for customs. I’d already shipped ahead all of the belongings I’d need for the year. They’d already cleared customs and would be waiting for me at the hotel. Of course the customs agent asked me a bunch more questions. In particular, she wanted to know why, if I was staying for a year, I was traveling with only a backpack.

Exiting the terminal, I entered a taxi queue and when I got to the front of the line, gave the driver a card with the name and address of the hotel where I’d be staying. It was a small hotel that had been recommended by the institute where I’d be conducting my research. The hotel wasn’t the most elegant in Paris, and it was on a busy street. However, it was reportedly clean, the staff were attentive and the price for a long-term stay was well within my budget.

Both the Institute and the hotel were in the Fifth Arrondissement. Situated on the left bank of the Seine, I was within walking distance of the Panthéon, Luxembourg Gardens and the Paris Observatory. When I was feeling more adventurous, a longer walk would take me to Notre Dame, the Louvre and Musée d’Orsay. Also nearby was also the quaint neighborhood of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, with its shops and restaurants. Yes, there was much to explore in Paris, and I’d be living there for a year. I’d have time to see it all.

The drive from the airport into the city was longer than I’d expected. I’d not realized how large the metro area really was. The architecture in Paris itself harkens back to the reign of Napoleon. The construction of the Montparnasse Tower in the late 60s drew such public outrage that building height within the city has been limited by law ever since. Thus Paris is surrounded by urban and suburban sprawl. The contrast was stark between gleaming, modern edge cities such as La Défense and the slums of the Banlieues.

Soon, my taxi entered central Paris, and I was mesmerized by its old-world charm. Unlike American cities, which are mostly organized on a grid, most European cities developed as groups of villages that expanded until they merged. The street layout is thus a mishmash of spokes and circles, broad avenues and narrow streets. I was sure glad the taxi driver knew the way, because I was hopelessly lost.

Like much old-world architecture, many buildings in Paris are constructed around hidden courtyards. Thus the view from the street is one of endless pavement, concrete, sidewalks, and buildings abutting sidewalks. Outside of the public gardens, little or no green space is visible from the streets of Paris. The reality is that there’s plenty of green space in the courtyards, but they are mostly private.

Finally, the taxi driver pulled up in front of my hotel and I paid him. Walking up to the hotel entrance, I found the doors were locked. I noticed an Intercom to the left with a button labeled, ‘Pousser pour la réception’. Even I could understand that, so I pushed the button. A disembodied male voice answered, “Oui?”

“Hello,” I responded. “I’m here to check in.”

The voice called back, “Entrer,” followed by a buzzing sound.

Once inside, around the corner was a small reception desk like in any hotel. Behind it was a tall, dark-skinned man in an elegant uniform. He asked, “Bonjour Monsieur. Puis-je vous offrir de l'aide pour l’enregistrement?"

Although I wasn’t certain of the exact translation, the intent was clear. I answered, ‘Bonjour.’ My attempt to address him in French actually made him cringe. I continued in English, “Good morning. My name is James Simon. I have a reservation.”

After typing for what seemed like a long time on his computer, the gentleman said, “Oui, M. Simon. Pardon. Docteur Simon. Je vois que tu resteras avec nous pendant un an?”

Totally lost, I explained, “I don’t speak much French. What did you just say?”

The clerk replied in broken English, “No speak much Anglais. Welcome, Dr. Simon. You staying for un ear?”

Before I could answer, he put a paper in front of me and handed me a pen. “Fill this. Pay un month now. Pay mensuel – by month, first day of month.”

I took the paper. Thankfully, it was in both French and English. There was much to fill out, including my name, permanent address, phone number and, of all things, my passport number. The problem was that I didn’t have a permanent address or phone number. It had been more than eight years since I lived with my parents and they’d since moved. The apartment where I’d lived while working on my dissertation was no longer mine. The address that was listed on my passport was my parents’ new address in Florida. That was also the address to which I was having all of my mail forwarded. I had no intention of living in Florida, though.

However, technically it was my legal residence for the moment, so that’s what I listed on the form. I handed the form back to the clerk, along with my credit card.

“Sorry. No credit card,” the man responded, handing my credit card back to me. “Cash only.”

“But your website says you take credit cards,” I complained.

“Nightly rate only,” he replied. “See reservation.” Then turning the form I’d just signed around, he pointed to the fine print, where it said, ‘Cash or bank draft only.’

Shit! I could pay cash for the first month, but I was counting on using my credit card for everything else. From what I was told, opening a local bank account was a nightmare for foreigners. I’d already arranged for the pay from my fellowship to be deposited directly into my bank account back home. I was going to have to arrange to wire the money to the hotel on a monthly basis. Setting that up would be difficult but not impossible. I might have to have my parents set it up for me. I hated to impose on them like that.

I handed the clerk enough Euros to pay for the first month of my stay. My stomach chose that moment to growl, reminding me of how hungry I was. I asked him, “Are you still serving breakfast?”

“Oui, but no included. No on day of check-in. No for monthly rate.”

“Breakfasts isn’t included? At all?” I asked as it dawned on me what the clerk was trying to say. The website listed a continental breakfast and so I’d assumed it was included. Apparently that wasn’t part of the deal.

“Is extra. Fifteen Euro.”

“Fifteen Euros!” I exclaimed in shock. “I could get a full breakfast at any neighborhood bistro for that!”

“Room has coffee maker and microwave,” the clerk countered. “Can make own breakfast. Dinner too.”

I hadn’t realized that, but it would be useless unless – “Is there a refrigerator in the room?” I asked.

“Oui,” he answered.

I was on a very limited budget, but perhaps I could buy some basic supplies from a local grocery. I’d need coffee, cereal, milk and sugar, but it would cost me a damn sight less than 15 euros. I might be able to make up for the added cost by buying some frozen dinners to eat in the evening, rather than grabbing something on the way home every night.

The clerk handed me my key and told me my room was on the fifth floor, in the back. That was good, as I’d asked for a quiet room. He then asked me to hand over my passport. WTF?

‘Why do you need my passport?” I asked.

“So you won’t leave without paying bill,” he answered.

“But I’m paying you in advance?” I replied.

“Maybe make phone calls. Maybe stain carpet. There is fee for smoke in nonsmoking room.”

“So when will I get my passport back?” I asked.

“When leave each day, hand in room key. Will give back if ask.” He must’ve noticed my look of confusion, as he continued, “No have keycards. Use keys. Everyone do this.”

Perhaps he was implying that they kept the key so I couldn’t make a duplicate. I replied, “Okay, I guess it makes sense.”

I took the hotel’s tiny elevator to the fifth floor, which was actually the sixth floor to my American way of thinking. I found my room at the end of a long corridor. It took me a while to get the hang of the lock, as the key had to be turned twice and then a bit more before the door opened. The door barely opened enough for me to slip through. Once inside, I could see why.

There were two stacks of boxes behind the door, almost all the way to the ceiling. I was grateful that the staff had brought the boxes up for me, but seeing how tiny the room was, I wondered where I was going to put everything.

The room was barely wider than the twin bed that took up most of one wall. The wall across from it was only about a meter high and then slanted with the roofline above that. There was a small desk, a dorm-sized refrigerator and on top of it, a microwave. A small drip coffeemaker sat on the desk. The only window in the room was above an old-fashioned radiator, in an alcove on the same wall as the desk and appliances. There was a tall armoire next to the door I’d just come through.

It was then that I noticed that the window was open and the room was hot. An oscillating fan mounted on the wall moved some air, but no thermostat was in evidence. It hadn’t even dawned on me that the hotel might not have air conditioning. It was the start of July and August was ahead of us.

Looking out the window, it overlooked a very small courtyard with the windows of the adjacent building only a few feet away. I noticed there was no screen. Didn’t they have mosquitos in Paris? Didn’t they have mosquito-born diseases to worry about?

A tiny door next to the bed led to a bathroom. I knew the room was supposed to have a private bath, which was never a given in Europe, but I was shocked by how small it was. The room sported the usual toilet, pedestal sink and a small shower on one end . A hair dryer hung on the wall next to the sink, next to a mirror. There was no room at all to put anything – not even a toothbrush. At least there was a small window in an alcove above the toilet.

I was beginning to have second thoughts about my living arrangements for the next year. Most of the graduate students, I was told, were renting rooms in private homes and apartments all over the city. Although the cost was significantly less than what I was paying, it usually meant sharing a bathroom with the owner’s family.

Nevertheless, I looked into some of them, which was how I discovered that ones with en-suite bathrooms were rare and cost as much as a hotel room. A studio apartment could be had for a similar rate, but not in Paris itself. It would’ve meant commuting in from the Banlieues and living in a neighborhood where I would have felt out of place.

At least the hotel was within easy walking distance of the Institute in a residential neighborhood with walking access to cafés, restaurants, grocery stores, pharmacies and everything else I might need over the course of the next year. It was on major bus routes and convenient to the Mêtro. It really was the best option, but I was going to have to learn to live without air conditioning until the fall arrived. Also, I’d need to scope out the best options for feeding myself on a budget.

Jet-lagged and exhausted, I slipped off my backpack and set it down on the floor in the corner by the window. I stripped down to my boxers, draping my sweaty clothes over the back of the desk chair. Mentally, I added looking for a laundromat to the list of things I needed to do. I lay down on the bed to rest my weary bones for a moment. I fully intended to shower, put on fresh clothes and go out to grab a bite. Dealing with the boxes could wait.

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The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a strange place, confused and disoriented. I looked at my watch and it read 10:07, but the sunlight streaming in through the open window didn’t look right for the late morning, and it was stiflingly hot. This wasn’t my apartment, nor was it my boyhood home.

Slowly, the cobwebs began to clear from my mind and I remembered that I was in Paris. I’d just arrived this morning. I only lay down for a second, but it didn’t feel like morning. My watch said it was just after 10:00, but had I even bothered to adjust the time yet? No, I hadn’t, which meant it was just after 10:00 in the morning back home, on Eastern Daylight time.

There was a six-hour time difference, which meant it was already after 4:00 in the afternoon here. I didn’t just lay down for a few seconds. I lay down and slept for several hours. I’d been hungry when I lay down; now I was starving. Getting out and exploring the neighborhood was now a necessity. I needed to find a place to eat, and soon!

Checking the shower, there was a fresh bar of soap in the soap dish, but I’d not bothered to bring shampoo or deodorant, planning to purchase such items locally. Getting out a piece of paper, I started to make a list of the things I needed to pick up today. The list included coffee, coffee filters, milk, sugar, cereal, shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, shaving cream, razors, deodorant, laundry detergent and given the heat, baby powder.

Washing up in the sink, I got dressed in the clothes I’d worn on the plane and headed back down to the lobby. I handed my key to the desk, clerk, who was a woman this time. I headed out the front door. Looking to my right, there seemed to be a small side street and so I headed in that direction. There was a bistro right on the corner with a glass-enclosed sidewalk seating area that I’d soon come to realize was common in Paris. I looked at the menu, which was posted outside, but didn’t understand most of it. I decided to move on.

Heading around the corner, I noticed a pizzeria nearby. The thing that attracted me right away was the prominent sign, in English, ‘Air Conditioned’. I wasn’t sure if it was that the sign was in English or the promise of relief from the heat, but I was starved and could definitely go for pizza, so I pulled open the door and I went inside. The restaurant was dark, but inviting, with several small tables. There was only one other customer, a young man dressed in a tank top, shorts and sandals. He had an Apple PowerBook laptop open – one of the new titanium models, and was drinking a beer.

Sitting down at an empty table, a middle-aged man handed me a menu and said, “Bonne soirée monsieur. Puis-je vous apporter quelque chose à boire?”

I understood the first part, which was, ‘Good evening, sir,’ but was lost when it came to the rest, so I asked, in my very best French, “Parlez-vous anglais?”

Laughing, he replied, “Un petit peu. A little bit. Better than you speak French.”

Laughing along with him, I replied, “Thank you.” I then asked, “Could you please repeat your question?”

“I asked if I could bring you something to drink.”

Shaking my head, I replied, “Nothing. Only a glass of water.”

“Avec du gaz?” he asked. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to say in English.”

“He asked if you want your water with gas, meaning carbonated,” the other patron said in a perfect American accent as he looked up from his laptop. “I think you meant you wanted tap water, but you have to ask for that here. They won’t serve you tap water unless you ask for it. If you just ask for water, they’ll bring you bottled water and charge you for it. Sometimes it’s mineral water, with or without carbonation.

“Did you want bottled water? Or just tap water?”

“I just assumed he’d bring me tap water,” I replied. “I didn’t know it wasn’t automatic.”

“This your first trip to Europe?” the young man asked.

“Is it obvious?” I replied with a laugh.

“Unfortunately for you, yes,” he answered. “You’re gonna find there are many things that we take for granted in America that are very different over here. You’re used to having drinking water as your right. Over here, you’ll be lucky to find a public drinking fountain. Some restaurants won’t serve you unless you buy a drink. This place will, but if you want tap water, you have to ask for it. If you want ice in it, you have to ask.

“The worst thing is that smoking is much more common here. Most restaurants have tiny nonsmoking sections if at all. That’s fine if you’re a smoker but if, like me, you hate cigarette smoke, you’ll quickly learn to ask if restaurants have a separate nonsmoking section. Otherwise, you’ll need to eat outside.

“This pizzeria is one of the few that’s completely nonsmoking, which is why I like to come here, even for just a beer. They let me use their WiFi for free too, which is rare in Europe. And this place is air conditioned. That’s important on a hot day like today.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I responded. Then I turned to the server and asked, “Could I please have tap water with ice?”

“Je ne comprends pas.”

“Le monsieur aimerait de l’eau du robinet avec de la glace,” the young American interjected.

As the server left, I opened the menu and was pleased to find that there were English translations under each item. I was surprised when I came to something I’d never seen before and said aloud, “Salmon? On a pizza?”

“It’s probably not what you think,” the young American responded. “It’s actually smoked salmon. It’s very similar to lox, but not as fatty or salty. It’s delicious on a pizza. Smoked salmon is very popular in France and it’s much cheaper than in The States. Smoked salmon on a baguette is a very popular lunch item, and it costs no more than something like a cheese sandwich.

“Actually, I’m getting hungry myself. It’s a bit early for dinner, but would you mind if I join you?” he asked.

“I think I’d like that,” I replied. “You can fill me in on some more of the secrets of life in Paris,” I replied.

Closing up his laptop and stuffing it in his backpack, he brought his beer over to my table and sat across from me. “By the way, my name’s Chris,” he said.

“I’m James,” I replied and extended my hand, which he shook firmly. “It’s nice to meet you, Chris.”

“Are you here on vacation, or are you going to be staying a while,” Chris asked.

“I’m just starting a postdoc at the University of Paris, so I’ll be here for the next full year,” I replied. “How about you?”

“I’m here on what you might call an apprenticeship,” he replied. “Musical instrument restoration is kind of a lost art. It’s much more specialized than, say, art restoration. Not only does an ancient musical instrument need to look like the original, but it has to sound like the original.”

“You mean you restore antique pianos and the like?” I asked.

“Yes, of course, but piano restoration isn’t that uncommon. Restoring the exterior of an eighteenth century piano is pretty much a matter of art restoration. Most people replace the soundboard, strings, hammers and dampers with modern components. Restoring it as a true period piece means using all original components, and those you often have to make yourself.”

“How do you make something like that?” I asked.

“The same way the original versions were made, turning wood on a lathe and attaching felt using glue,” he answered. “At least we use modern tools, powered by electricity. Original lathes were powered by steam, or by hand. Ours are programmable. You can turn out dozens of hammers at a time.

“However, what I’m learning is how to restore musical instruments that are much older. I’m learning how to restore instruments of any kind and from any era, from a roman flute to a Stradivarius violin. I came to Paris to work with a renowned expert in the field. He can restore any instrument and, like I said, he can make it look and sound like it did when it was new.

“He also builds his own harpsichords by hand. He has a workshop and people from all over the world order harpsichords from him. He also travels all over to restore organs. Obviously, those can’t be brought to him, so he goes to them. I’ve gone with him to Vienna, Prague, and even Reykjavík.”

“And you’d like to do this for a living?” I asked.

“I’d love to, but I also want to teach,” Chris answered. “My hope is that I can get a teaching position at a top music school such as Curtis, Eastman, Oberlin, Vanderbilt or Juilliard.”

“Wouldn’t you need a PhD for that?” I asked.

“I have one,” Chris answered, “from Hopkins.”

“I’m impressed,” I replied.

Our server returned with two glasses of water, with ice. He asked, “Gentlemen, what can I get you?”

“Nous aurons deux pizzas au saumon et deux bières pression,” Chris answered.

“Merçi,” the server answered and then he departed.

“What did you order?” I asked.

“I ordered two salmon pizzas and two draft beers,” Chris answered. “I hope you didn’t mind me ordering a beer for you. The dinner’s on me. Most Parisians drink wine. It’s not often I go out for a beer, and very seldom that I get to drink a beer with a friend.”

“I’m fine with the beer,” I replied. “I was kind of admiring yours, but you don’t have to pick up the tab.”

“Nonsense! Post-docs don’t make a lot. I know. I don’t make much either, but skilled labor in my field is much harder to come by. My apprenticeship includes room and board.”

“Well in any case, thank you very much, friend,” I said.

“Sorry if that was being presumptuous.”

“Not at all,” I replied. “I just arrived and already I was feeling a bit lonely. It would be nice to have a friend, Chris. Particularly one who speaks English.”

“I’ve been here more than a year, but it’s still not home,” Chris agreed. “It’s nice to have someone I can talk to in my own language. Maybe someone I can hang with.”

“Speaking of which, perhaps after dinner you can show me around the neighborhood,” I suggested. “I need to pick up some things I didn’t bring with me. Things like toothpaste, shampoo, deodorant, coffee and the like. You know, luxury items.”

Laughing, Chris replied, “I can certainly show you the best places to buy those things. The best places to eat too. Speaking of which, do you know about Rue Mouffetard?”

“Who?” I asked

“Not who. What,” Chris explained. “ Rue Mouffetard is one of the oldest streets in Paris. It’s long and very narrow, and for the most part limited to pedestrians. It’s always been a gathering place where you can enjoy a quick espresso or a simple meal. It’s especially popular with students because you can eat for less than it costs to cook your own food. It’s a great place for people watching, and it’s only a few blocks from here.”

“I had no idea. I’ll have to check it out.”

“If you’d like, I’ll take you there.”

“I’d like that very much,” I replied.

Just then, our server brought each of us a pizza and a frosty mug of beer. The pizzas were larger than a typical personal pizza, but much thinner than even the thinnest crusted New York pizza, and covered with very thin slices of smoked salmon.

First, however, I took a sip of my beer, which had a crisp, light taste I found refreshing. “This is really good,” I exclaimed.

“It’s a Belgian beer from a small local brewery. You won’t find it outside of Belgium and France. Not that I don’t enjoy the local wines of France, but this beer is so much better with pizza.”

Taking a bite of the pizza, it wasn’t at all what I was expecting. It was like eating lox and cream cheese on thin toasted bagel.

“Not what you were expecting?” Chris asked.

“Not at all,” I replied. “It tastes more like something you might find in New York. Kind of a cross between a white pizza and lox on a bagel.”

“California Pizza Kitchen has something similar, but this is a very traditional French pizza.”

“It’s heavenly,” I exclaimed.

“I agree.” Then taking a sip of his beer, Chris asked, “So tell me a little about yourself, James. Where is it that you call home?…”

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Wednesday, July 24, 2024

“Jim, Are you okay?” my husband asked.

“Sure I’m fine,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you haven’t responded to anything I’ve said for like the last ten minutes, or maybe more. You looked like you were a thousand miles away.”

“More like twenty years away,” I countered. “I was just thinking back to the day we met.”

With a smile on his face, Chris said, “How could I ever forget that day? You were so cute, sitting there in that pizzeria all by yourself, looking like a lost puppy.” Then with a laugh, he added, “You had hair back then!”

“Asshole,” I responded, “but true, and I was a lost puppy. I’d never been overseas before.”

“You didn’t even know you were gay when we met,” my husband interjected.

“I never acknowledged it,” I agreed. “I suppose I’d always known I was different. I was so focused on my studies that I convinced myself that I just didn’t have time for dating. The reality was probably the reverse.”

“And then you met me,” Chris added.

“And then I met you,” I agreed with a grin. “I think I was smitten right away, seeing you with those blond curls and vivid blue eyes. You were sitting there in that pizzeria, so intensely focused on your laptop. We ended up talking until after the shops had closed.”

“I offered to give you one of my tubes of toothpaste, and to let you shower at my place,” Chris remembered.

“I was scared, Chris,” I acknowledged. “I was feeling things I’d never let myself feel before, and I wasn’t ready. I just wasn’t ready yet.”

“It took two months before I could even get you to come see my apartment. You always had an excuse. I tried to talk you into doing your laundry at my place. I had a washer and dryer in my apartment. Most of the time, they sat idle, so why did you insist on going to a laundromat?”

“At first even I didn’t understand it,” I replied. “I guess in my subconscious, I knew what would happen. And then it did happen.”

“For a long time, I thought I was only seeing what I wanted to see,” Chris chimed in. “I could have sworn I saw in your eyes what could only be characterized as desire. I was sure of it, but what if I was wrong? In such a short time, you’d become my best friend, and I didn’t want to jeopardize that.

“Then I saw something else in your eyes. What I saw was love—“

“I was head over heels in love with you, but I was afraid to acknowledge it,” I admitted. “Not even to myself.”

Sighing, Chris said, “We’ve been sitting here too long. They’re probably already boarding our flight.”

“Shit, you’re right. At least we’re in business class,” I acknowledged.

Since we knew where to find our gate, it didn’t take long to get there, thanks to the moving walkways. They were indeed already boarding first and business class passengers, so we were able to step right up and board our flight. We were seated in the front section of a Boeing 787 Dreamliner aircraft. The seats looked more like something you might find inside a space capsule, with individual environmental controls and entertainment options. Most of the seats were isolated from each other for privacy. Ours were among the few that were designed for couples, with seats that were next to each other.

With our carryon luggage stored overhead and our backpacks stowed in a small recess in front of our feet, we settled in and waited for the masses to board in Economy. As we waited, I again thought about how Chris and I finally admitted our love for each other.

<> <> <>

Twenty Year Earlier

“Please, just call me Stephan,” Chris’ mentor said as he shook my hand. His English was impeccable. The surprising thing, to me at least, was that he didn’t appear to be all that old. His hair was grey at the temples, but he couldn’t have been older than his early fifties.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I replied. “Chris has told me so much about you, but from the way he talked about your reputation, I was expecting someone much older. He didn’t say that you were so young!”

“I’m probably not as young as you think,” Stephan replied. “I’m rapidly approaching my sixtieth birthday, but I keep in shape. It’s important for a man in my profession who must travel often to be in top condition.”

Chris had been bugging me for weeks to meet his mentor, the man with whom he was doing an apprenticeship. Actually, he’d been bugging me to see his apartment, which was located above Stephen’s workshop, but there always seemed to be a reason I couldn’t do so. Chris had recently finished the first harpsichord he’d built completely by himself and, in celebration, Stephan had invited some friends for a small reception and concert.

It was Friday evening; we were the first to arrive. Stephan wasted no time in showing me his workshop with its many instruments in various states of restoration. There was a grand piano laying on its side. The top was removed and the soundboard completely exposed. As he explained it, the instrument was being restrung and fit with completely new hammers and dampers.

The pieces of a centuries-old violin occupied a bench. The back had cracked so he’d disassembled the instrument, removing all the glue. He’d separated the halves on each side of the crack and was painstakingly sanding them so they would fit together perfectly. When he was satisfied, he’d glue the two halves back together and then glue the full instrument together. Finally, he’d refinish the violin to its original elegance.

“Why not simply fill the crack with a wood and glue mixture?” I asked.

“Because the violin wouldn’t sound the same,” Stephan answered. “You’re probably thinking of using something like Plastic Wood, which is made from acrylic. The acrylics don’t have the resonance of natural wood. Worse, it would change the timbre of the entire instrument. Even if I used a natural glue with sawdust to fill the gaps, the two halves would vibrate separately instead of as a single unit. By carefully refitting and gluing the halves together, the violin will literally sound as good as when it was first made. Good as new, as they say.”

Stephan had a large number of antique and ancient instruments that I didn’t even recognize. Each one produced a unique sound, usually new to me. I was beginning to appreciate how learning to restore musical instruments from such a master workman would give Chris invaluable skills. Being able to teach those skills to others at a top university would help to revitalize the entire profession in the U.S.

As the guests started to arrive, Stephan broke out several bottles of fine French wine and an assortment of cheeses. There were only a handful of friends invited, all of them with a particular interest in harpsichord music. At the appointed hour, Stephan pulled the drape off of Chris’ harpsichord to reveal a stunningly beautiful instrument with inlaid panels of various kinds of wood. I’d never seen such marquetry outside of a museum. It was truly one of a kind.

Everyone walked around the harpsichord, admiring the beautiful craftsmanship. The inlaid panels were elegant and fit perfectly. The white over black keys, arranged in two rows, gleamed with a flawless, smooth coat of lacquer. It was not just an instrument, but an elegant piece of furniture. Then someone opened the top. If I thought the exterior was incredible, the interior was nothing short of astonishing. The soundboard was hand-built. The strings were individually strung and under tension. The mechanism was completely different from that of a piano.

Once we all had a chance to examine the harpsichord in detail, we all sat down in a circle around the instrument and Stephan sat on the accompanying bench in front of it. When he began to play, the purity and depth of the sound was amazing. He played a variety of different traditional pieces. I recognized one of them as being by Bach, but I was unsure of the others.

“I had no idea of what went into making an instrument like this,” I told Chris. “You have to be a furniture maker as well as a musician.”

“The harpsichord represents a very special niche in the market,” Chris responded. “However, the mechanism is much, much simpler than in a piano. A Steinway concert grand piano can cost as much as $75k. It used to be less, but this is 2004, after all.”

I whistled on hearing that.

“Most people don’t have the room or the resources for a concert grand in their homes. A brand new Steinway baby grand starts at fifty grand, but a certified used one can be had for half that. A typical upright piano costs around six grand new, but they can cost as little as $2k or as much as $20k. A used upright piano can be had for a few hundred bucks.

“The reason I’m telling you all of this is for perspective. A vintage harpsichord from the eighteenth century can be had for only two thousand bucks. It might even play, but it won’t sound as good as a new one. Even a fully restored instrument won’t produce sound as rich as one of Stefan’s reproductions. The wood from which they were built doesn’t age well.

“Most of the harpsichords being sold for professional use are reproductions of ones originally made in the seventeenth through the nineteenth centuries. They have hardwood frames and modern soundboards that should last a lifetime. The prices range from around $5 to 25 thousand. So you see, even the best harpsichords cost less than a used baby grand.”

“How much do you plan to sell your harpsichord for?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s not for sale,” Stephan said as he came up to us. “You can’t buy a new harpsichord like this one at any price. I’ll keep this one to show prospective clients what’s possible, but no one is willing to pay what this one cost to make in materials and labor. People have expectations of what a harpsichord should sound like and it isn’t like this one.”

“I fashioned the soundboard by hand from multiple types of hardwood,” Chris explained. “My harpsichord has a mix of longer and shorter strings for each note. That gives the instrument a sound more typical of a large concert hall, even when played in a smaller space. The inlaid wood is specifically designed to dampen the harmonic frequencies that are inherent in most instruments, giving it a pure sound. I rather like how my harpsichord sounds, but it doesn’t sound like most people expect one to sound and so they aren’t likely to buy it.”

“Well to me, it’s magnificent,” I replied.

“And with your famous, critical ear for music and your extensive training, how could I argue with you?” Chris quipped.

“Actually, I rather fancy the idea of an electronic version. From what I’ve read, they can be programmed to sound like any instrument you want, be it a piano, a harpsichord or a church organ. They’re portable enough to be taken anywhere, and they don’t break the bank!”

Stephan clutched his chest as if I’d given him a heart attack.

“To be fair, I’ve heard electronic keyboards that sound eerily like a real concert grand,” Chris interjected, “but only in a professional sound studio, connected to a fifteen channel sound system. Then you’re getting into the same price range as a real concert grand piano, if not more. Even so, you can’t match the three-dimensional texture of the sound generated by a real instrument.”

“As I’m coming to appreciate. It’s much the same in my research. I’m having much more difficulty than I’d expected. The theory’s straightforward. I can use high-intensity ultrasound to induce shear waves. I can see the shear waves using high frame rate ultrasonic imaging. From the those I ought to be able to image soft tissue mechanical properties. It’s a simple matter of mathematic inversion.”

“I bet your models are linear, whereas the mechanical properties you’re trying to image are decidedly not,” Chris responded.

“That’s part of the problem, but even the high frame rate ultrasonic technology makes assumptions that just don’t hold up in high-resolution applications like mine,” I lamented.

“Physical acoustics underlie both our fields, James,” Chris began. “You’re trying to apply numeric solutions to a problem that’s no less complex than those that have been vexing musical instrument makers for thousands or years.”

“That’s an interesting point,” I replied. “I think you may be right.”

<> <> <>

It was considerably later than I’d expected by the time the party wound down. Late enough that Chris didn’t feel safe letting me walk back to my hotel. Chris had been wanting to show me his apartment, practically since we met.

In the brief time we’d known each other, we’d become inseparable. We often met up for lunch and almost always ate dinner together. Chris was showing me the sights of Paris during my time off. Yet I always managed to have an excuse as to why I couldn’t see his apartment.

The reality was that I had feelings for Chris that I just didn’t understand. I’d poured myself into my studies and never dated in high school or college. I always thought it was my priorities that got in the way of developing personal relationships. Now, I was starting to get the impression that I was merely avoiding the dating scene out of a fear of what I might discover.

Hell, I jerked off like every other healthy young guy, but my fantasies were always generic. I imagined things like nude camping or going to school in only a speedo. Since coming to Paris, canoeing down the Seine in the nude had become a favorite fantasy of mine. I just wasn’t letting my imagination go where my body wanted it to go. Now, I was beginning to realize there might have been a reason for that.

Stephan’s storefront and studio were located on the ground floor of the building, and his workshop was on what Europeans called the first floor. Stephan’s apartment, which was a duplex, occupied the second and third floors. There was another apartment on the fourth floor that Stephan rented out. Chris had the entire fifth floor to himself. His apartment consisted of a large studio under the eaves in the attic. It was completely open with no interior walls. A clever arrangement of furniture and partitions separated the living area, the kitchen, the sleeping area and even the bathroom from each other.

The toilet was located in an alcove that kept it out of the line of sight. The lavatory, however, was right out in the open. So was the shower, which was nothing more than a large tiled area with an overhead rain shower and a floor drain. There wasn’t even a glass partition to separate it from the rest of the apartment.

When we first entered the apartment, I was struck immediately by the collection of musical instruments inside. Many of them appeared to be hundreds of years old. When I asked Chris about one of them, he told me it dated back to Roman times. It was actually more than two thousand years old.

As I looked around, Chris turned on the ceiling fans that served as the only means of keeping cool. Even with the ceiling fans going full blast with the windows open, it was still uncomfortably warm. However, we were both dressed in sports coats and ties.

“First thing I gotta do is to get outta these clothes,” Chris began, “and then I’ve gotta take a quick shower. I imagine you must feel the same way.”

Even though I’d been sleeping in a room with nothing more than a small oscillating fan and a large window, I still wasn’t used to the lack of air conditioning that was the norm in Paris. No sooner did I echo his sentiments than I realized we’d be getting naked in front of each other. I immediately became hard. Painfully so.

In the meantime, Chris stripped down to a pair of bikini briefs and was in the process of hanging his clothes up in a wardrobe. When he turned around and saw me still standing there, he said, “Ah, let me get you some hangers so you can hang up your stuff, too.”

The thought of hanging up my ‘stuff’ only made me even harder.

When he approached, however, I was still frozen like a statue. There was no way I could undress in front of him. He’d see my boner for sure, and then he’d know. Then I’d know what I was only now coming to realize – that I was attracted to him. The fact hit me like a bolt of lightning. I wanted to get naked with him and wanted to do things. Yet I had no idea just what it was I wanted to do. More than that, it dawned on me that I was hopelessly in love with him.

By the time I had that thought, Chris was standing right in front of me and he asked, “James, what’s wrong?” When I failed to move or answer, he looked intently into my eyes. I wasn’t sure what he may have seen, but he asked, “Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing? James, I want you as a friend more than anything. I would never do something to get in the way of that. But if you feel what I think you feel, I want you to know that I feel the same way.”

Finally hearing what he was trying to say, I replied, “I don’t know, Chris. I’m not sure even I know what I’m feeling. I’ve never felt this way before. I’ve never allowed myself to feel this way before. However, I’ve never met someone who made me feel this way.

“It’s not just that I have these feelings, but it’s more than that. We spend all our time together. We’ve been doing that since my arrival and I don’t want it to end. I can’t imagine not being with you. I dread the time when you’ll finish your apprenticeship and leave. I’m scared, Chris. I don’t know what any of that means.”

“It means that we’ve fallen in love with each other. Not that I’ve ever been in love before, but what you’re feeling, I’m feeling. I can’t imagine being apart from you either. Yeah, I want to jump your bones. I’ve known I’m gay since I was thirteen. This is about a lot more than getting my rocks off, though. Way more. It’s about waking up with you by my side every morning. It’s about seeing your face at night, just before I turn out the lights. It’s about planning our lives together. It’s about making sacrifices for your sake. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

Swallowing hard, I realized that I was no longer hard. Chris was practically naked and standing within inches of me. He was incredibly sexy, but I was scared. What he was saying was as serious as anything could be. I’d been raised in a very conservative family, but times were changing and I certainly had no problem with gay people. I had no problem with the possibility that I was gay. Yet the realization that I probably was simply terrified me.

However, Chris seemed to know exactly what to do as he closed the gap between us. It was awkward at first as I kept turning my head in the same direction that Chris did. Our noses kept getting in the way. Finally, Chris held my head steady and his lips made contact with mine. The kiss was tentative at first, but then I pulled him into me and kissed him back.

I’d never kissed anyone on the lips before, but this felt so right. I wasn’t sure what to make of it when his tongue pressed against my lips, but when I allowed his tongue to pass between them, wow! My boner was back, big time, and I could feel Chris’s boner too.

As we separated, Chris said, “As much as I enjoyed the kiss, your sport coat is scratchy against my skin. I’m sure you want to get out of it too. More than anything, I think we need to talk. Why don’t you get out of those clothes and in the meantime, I’ll go take a quick shower. There’s room enough for two in the shower, but I think it best we shower separately tonight. We need to talk about where we go from here.”

<> <> <>

Wednesday, July 24, 2024

“I think I lost you again," Chris said as the plane pushed back from the gate and started to taxi toward the runway.

“Sorry, I was just remembering the night we finally admitted we loved each other.”

“That was quite a night,” Chris agreed. “We sat and talked until dawn was practically breaking. Even though we were essentially naked, we were too drained emotionally to even think of sex. Finally, we crashed and slept until it was after noon. Then we woke up in bed together. Somehow we’d managed to wrap ourselves in each other’s arms. Even though we hadn’t eaten in nearly a day, we made love for hours.”

“I was too scared to let you fuck me,” I replied in a whisper.

“You’ve certainly more than made up for that ever since,” Chris responded. I couldn’t help but blush. “Finally, we went out to that same pizzeria where we first met and ate a proper meal.”

“I wonder if that pizzeria is still there,” I said aloud, not really expecting a response.

“It is,” Chris responded nevertheless. “I checked, and it’s still owned by the same family.”

“Excellent, we’ll have to go there,” I exclaimed. Then, after a pause, I continued, “The hardest thing was talking about how we could manage to stay together, even though you would be returning to the U.S. when your apprenticeship ended at the end of the year while my fellowship continued until the summer.”

“But then fate intervened,” Chris remembered.

<> <> <>

Twenty Years Earlier

I awoke to the sound of Chris making the most godawful noise. It sounded like he was vomiting. Running toward the bathroom, I saw him hunched over the toilet and puking his guts out. The smell was horrible, but there was worse to come.

Suddenly, Chris stood up and plopped himself down on the toilet, then let loose with the longest stream of diarrhea I’d ever heard. Before he could even stand, he vomited all over his legs, feet, and the tile floor in front of the toilet.

The traditional wedding vows included for better or for worse and in sickness and in health. We weren’t married but this was definitely in sickness and for worse. Poor Chris continued to puke and to empty his bowels. It was November and cold outside, but I opened a window to let in some fresh air and turned up the heat to compensate.

Stepping around the vomit as best I could, I felt Chris’ forehead. It was hot and sweaty. I soaked a washcloth in cold water and applied it to his forehead. Chris croaked out a, “Thanks,” but could say little else.

“Do you think you need to see a doctor?” I asked.

Chris shook his head ‘no.’

I got another washcloth and started to wipe up the vomit from his legs and feet. I got him a large stockpot to vomit into, and then set about mopping the floor. Slowly, the vomiting and diarrhea subsided and Chris was finally able to stand. I flushed the toilet and helped to clean him up, but then he had to sit right back down and let loose again.

Chris kept a supply of sports drinks in his refrigerator, so I grabbed a bottle and opened it. “You might not feel like drinking this, but you need it to keep from getting dehydrated,” I told him. He took it from me gratefully and started taking small sips. It was perhaps another hour before he was able to get off the toilet again. I helped clean him up once more and put him back in bed.

No sooner had I gotten back under the covers than I was hit by an intense wave of nausea that washed over me like a turbulent sea. Suddenly, I broke out in a cold sweat as the nausea continued to intensify. An intense gagging sensation build in the pit of my stomach, reaching the point of no return. Throwing back the covers, I ran for the toilet, barely making it in time to empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet bowl.

The vomiting was explosive, erupting from my mouth like a firehose, hitting the water like a rocket and sending vomit splashing into the air not unlike a sputtering volcano, getting all over the my face and chest. Yet I couldn’t stop. Feeling intense cramping in my lower gut, I barely had time to turn around before my diarrhea hit the water. A stock pot was thrust into my lap, just in time for me to vomit into it. Then I realized that Chris was there by my side.

I tried to croak out, ‘You need your rest,’ but the words wouldn’t come as I kept letting loose from both ends of my gastrointestinal tract. Chris doted over me, much as I had with him just moments before. I must’ve been sitting on the toilet for more than an hour before I finally felt well enough to stand. What was in the toilet bowl was pretty gross, but when I tried to wipe myself, I couldn’t help but notice that my shit was black.

At first I tried to deny what was obvious. Then I had another bout of diarrhea and vomiting. When I again wiped myself, my residue on the toilet paper was still as black as crude oil. I remembered reading somewhere that black stool was a sign of internal bleeding, which meant that I was in serious trouble. This wasn’t just an episode of intestinal flu or, more likely, food poisoning. I needed to get to a hospital, right away.

“Chris, I think I need to go to the hospital,” I told my boyfriend.

“What do you mean, Jim?” Chris asked.

“I need to get to Emergency. My shit’s turned black—”

“That’s very serious,” Chris interrupted. “You might be bleeding inside.”

“Do they have something like 911 here?” I asked.

“Of course they do, but the ambulances in Paris aren’t known for speed. You tell them you have vomiting and diarrhea, and they’ll automatically triage you to dead last. You can tell them you’re bleeding internally until you’re blue in the face. Their rules say that vomiting and diarrhea aren’t serious and that’s that. It’ll be hours before the ambulance shows up, if it ever does. You could well be dead by then, and your family won’t even be able to sue.”

“Fuck that!” I exclaimed. “Could we take a taxi to the nearest hospital?” I asked.

“Not if you want to be taken seriously and for that, you need to be sent by a doctor. It’s too bad you gave up your room at the hotel. They’re required to have a doctor on call for emergencies. Nevertheless, I think I can get a doctor to come here. I’ll call Stephan. He’ll know someone who’ll come.”

“Doctors make house calls?” I asked in disbelief.

“It’s one of the perks of socialized medicine in France. As you’ll see, it’s one of the few perks. They do a much better job when it comes to preventative care. Their prenatal care is second to none. However, the French word for ‘emergency’ is ‘urgence’, which loses something in the translation. Let’s just say there’s a reason ‘laissez faire’ is a French expression.”

Although it was still early, Chris wasted no time in contacting Stephan and less than an hour later, a very kindly physician was at our door. Chris quickly explained to her what had been going on with both of us.

She responded by saying, “Food poisoning, I think.” Then turning to me, she said, “James, I need to do a rectal. Is that okay?”

“Do what you hafta do, doc,” I replied.

She had me lay on my stomach on the edge of the bed, with my legs hanging down. I could hear her donning a rubber glove, and then I felt something cool against my crack. There was a sharp pain as she pushed her finger up inside, but by the time I felt it, she’d already removed it.

“Noir,” I heard her say. “I don’t even need to test it.” Then she said, “James, you need a fibrio, today. I can call for a public ambulance, but a private one will be faster and the cost isn’t that much. Maybe fifty Euros.”

“That’s all?” I asked in surprise. “In America, it’d be ten times that.”

“You might want to reserve judgment until you see the inside of the Emergency Room,” Chris exclaimed.

True to her word, the ambulance arrived within fifteen minutes. I was surprised when I saw the gurney, which was much narrower and flatter than any I’d ever seen, and it lacked any kind for mattress or cushion. Even more surprising was that they were able to convert it into the shape of a chair. Once I was seated and strapped in, the two attendants carried me down the five flights of stairs that led outside. They raised my legs and lowered my head, returning the gurney to a flat position as they slid it into the ambulance.

Chris wasn’t allowed to ride with me but he knew the hospital they were going to take me to. I gathered he’d have to catch up with me later. It didn’t dawn on me until after we were underway that my wallet was back in Chris’ apartment, as were my passport and all of my identification papers. I didn’t even have proof of my medical coverage through my employment with the University. Perhaps Chris could bring those things later.

When we reached the nearest hospital, they transferred me to an ordinary gurney with a mattress. I was taken back to a tiny room where a nurse spoke to me in French. When I made it clear that I only spoke English, she took my temperature and checked my blood pressure without making any further comments. She then threw a hospital gown at me and disappeared for what seemed like an hour, presumably to get someone who spoke English. The gown was like most hospital gowns I’d seen – one size fits none.

While I waited, I had a sudden bout of nausea and knew I needed to get to a bathroom. I got off the gurney as best I could without falling and breaking my neck. I exited the room and kept calling out, ‘Excuse me,” over and over again, but no one stopped to see what I needed. I tried to find a bathroom on my own but there didn’t seem to be any.

Finally, in desperation, I called out, “Toilet.” That was understood and someone escorted me to a tiny lavatory, where I promptly vomited into the toilet, turned around and let loose a ton of diarrhea. When I finished, the nurse who’d tried speaking to me in French escorted me back to the tiny room and helped me up onto the gurney. Then, like a mirage fading in the desert, she disappeared.

I was beginning to feel very weak, and I knew I needed fluids, but still, no one came. Finally, a doctor came in and in broken English asked what was going on. I explained that I’d been having vomiting and diarrhea with black shit for several hours now, and that my boyfriend came down with symptoms even before me. Although I repeated that my shit was black, I didn’t seem to be getting through to him that it was serious.

I asked if I could please see my boyfriend, but he told me that visitors weren’t allowed. Great, the one person who could translate for me wasn’t allowed to be with me. As the doctor turned to leave, I called out, “Wait! What about an IV?”

“Let’s wait to see if you need one,” he replied. Huh, didn’t they start an IV on just about everyone who showed up at the ER? What was the harm in starting an IV? Wasn’t it obvious I was dehydrated?

Shortly after the doctor left, an orderly, or whatever they were called, came and wheeled my gurney into what could only be characterized as Dante’s Inferno. There was a collection of gurneys lined up along a wall and the orderly slid me into an open spot between two of them. People of both sexes populated the gurneys, all wearing nothing more than a flimsy hospital gown like the one I was wearing. Curtains hung from the ceiling, but they were pushed all the way back. They were spaced much farther apart than the gurneys they were meant to separate.

When the orderly left, he took my clothes with him. I was left just laying there for what seemed like hours, feeling weaker and weaker. They had yet to put an IV in me. They had yet to draw any blood. Fuck, the doctor back in Chris’ apartment said I needed a fibrio today! I wasn’t sure what a fibrio was, but if I was bleeding internally, I could well bleed out while waiting to be seen.

And where was Chris?

I lost track of the time as I just lay there without even a TV to distract me. Every so often, an orderly would come and remove one of the gurneys, taking the patient to someplace unseen. I feared that if things continued as they were, they’d end up taking me to the morgue. Eventually, however, they did get to me, wheeling me into an exam room where two young men and a young woman waiting, all of them dressed in white coats.

From the vast knowledge I’d acquired from watching medical shows on TV, I surmised that the trio consisted of a resident physician, an intern and a medical student. None of them looked to be any older than I was. One of them, who was Asian, began to speak. “Don’t speak much English. Need to examine you and draw some blood.”

The three of them poked and prodded me, and then the young woman attempted to draw blood, but she kept sticking me without success. Finally, one of the other doctors had a go at it and drew a few tubes of blood. “Need to put tube in your nose to your stomach,” the Asian guy said, and then he and the other man left, leaving the young woman to insert the tube.

I was surprised at how long and stiff the tube looked. The woman coated the end of the tube using a packet that was labeled, ‘K-Y’. I knew what that was, but didn’t realize it was used as a medical lubricant. It felt awful as she inserted the tube into my nose, and then I felt it in my throat and I gagged on it.

Suddenly I needed to hurl and the woman barely had time to get a basin under my mouth as I sat bolt upright and vomited a prodigious amount of dark brown liquid. Once I stopped vomiting, I saw that I’d vomited what looked like coffee grounds. There were markings on the inside of the basin and so I could see that I’d vomited about 2½ liters. I seemed to remember that the body contained only five liters of blood, so if that was all from bleeding, I’d lost half my blood. Holy shit!

My thoughts were echoed by the woman, who actually said, “Putain de merde!” Even I knew what that meant. She ran from the room and returned moments later with the two other physicians.

The Asian guy turned to the woman and said, “Commencez une perfusion intraveineuse et suspendez un litre de solution saline normale, grande ouverte.” He then turned to me and said, “You’ve lost a lot of blood. We’re going to start an IV.” Finally! “You need a fibrio, right away. You may need a transfusion. I’m going to see if I can arrange it.” He and the other man left, leaving the woman to, apparently, start the IV. Fortunately, she had better luck with that than she did with drawing my blood.

After perhaps only ten minutes, the Asian guy returned and said, “We’re a major teaching hospital, and we’re swamped. There are others waiting for a bed in intensive care who are even more critical than you. I’m going to try to arrange for a critical care ambulance to take you to another hospital. It’s fortunate you’re an American. Unlike everyone else, we can send you to a military hospital. They’re much better equipped than we are.”

“What about my boyfriend?” I asked.

“He’s in the waiting room. He’s been asking about you, like every few minutes,” he answered. “He’s been driving the staff crazy.” That made me smile. “We’ll tell him what we can, but even with your permission, he’s not a relative.” Fuck!

Things happened surprisingly quickly as I was loaded into a critical care ambulance with a doctor and a nurse who went with me and monitored my condition the whole way to the other hospital. I was surprised when the ambulance doors opened and I saw the name of the hospital, which was a veterans’ hospital located only a few blocks from where Chris and I lived.

The room they took me to couldn’t have been more different than the emergency room I’d just left. The room was large, clean and modern, with all the high-tech equipment I might have expected to see in the so-called teaching hospital where I first received what passed for treatment. I’d read that in countries with socialized medicine, hospitals were often starved for equipment, thanks to austere budgets set by the government. Not that I favored the chaotic approach in the U.S., but there had to be a middle ground in which everyone had access to quality healthcare that didn’t break the bank.

No sooner hand I transferred to my bed than Chris walked in! He was dressed in a surgical cap, gown and mask, but I’d have recognized him anywhere.

“Oh my god, Jim. They wouldn’t tell me anything. They wouldn’t even tell me where they were taking you. If it wasn’t for a nurse who was going off duty who offered to bring me here, I might never have found you.”

“I would’ve thought they’d have wanted you there with me throughout my time in the ER,” I replied. “You knew my history and you could’ve translated for me. On the other hand, there wasn’t any space for you. The gurneys were wedged in so tightly, there was scarcely an inch or two between them.”

“I hate to tell you, but there are plenty of places in the U.S. where I wouldn’t have been welcome either,” Chris pointed out. “Hell, where you grew up, there’s no such thing as gay spousal rights.”

“Is that a marriage proposal?” I asked.

“Now that gay marriage is legal in Massachusetts, absolutely.”

I would’ve kissed him if I could, but a bunch of doctors and nurses started wheeling in carts with what I guessed were surgical instruments, covered with blue paper or something.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” a distinguished man said, “but we need to do a fibrio. I’m going to use a fiberoptic endoscope to take a look at your esophagus, stomach and small intestine. We need to find out where the bleeding is coming from. If we find anything suspicious, we can take a biopsy. If we see active bleeding, we’ll cauterize it.

“We’ll use light anesthesia and you’ll sleep through the whole thing. We don’t have consent forms in English, so I’m just going to tell you that there’s a possibility you might need a transfusion. There’s a small risk we could perforate your esophagus or stomach. That could be fatal. I’ve never seen that happen, but I need to tell you there’s a risk.

“The risk is much greater if we don’t do the procedure. Without it, you could very well die. Do I have your permission to proceed?”

“Yeah, sure,” I replied, but then everything happened so fast. I didn’t even realize the nurse was already giving me anesthesia through my IV.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked.

“Anxious,” I replied. “I just want to get the procedure over with.”

Laughing, he responded, “Then you’re in luck, because we finished a half-hour ago. You have something called Syndrome de Mallory-Weiss. That’s a tear in the wall of the esophagus, resulting from forceful vomiting. You are lucky. The bleeding had already stopped by the time we did the fibrio. If it hadn’t, you probably wouldn’t have survived your stay in Emergency. As it is, you lost half your blood volume and were on the verge of going into shock.”

“Did you need to do any surgery?” I asked.

“Fortunately, no. Since there’s no active bleeding, it’s safer to leave the tear to heal on its own. We’ll keep you in the ICU overnight and if you remain stable, we’ll move you to a regular room for a few more days of observation. We’ll do one more fibrio to make sure there’s been no further bleeding and then you can go home.”

“Did you need to do a transfusion?” I asked.

Shaking his head, he replied, “Your hemoglobin level is 7.2, which is adequate for someone as young as you. We only transfuse when it’s below 7. Once we fully rehydrate you, it’ll probably be closer to 6.9, but that’s close enough. You’ll need to take it easy for a while, but there’s no need to put you through the risk of an adverse reaction to a blood transfusion, rather than just letting your body make its own new blood cells. It’ll take a few months, though, before your blood counts return to normal.”

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Wednesday, July 24, 2024

The sudden acceleration of the 787 down the runway was enough to break me out of my reverie. I would’ve liked to have held my husband’s hand, but the spacing between the business class seats made it too difficult. Instead, I smiled and in response, Chris said, “Back to the scene of the crime.”

“Twenty years since we met,” I chimed in.

“Twenty years since I nearly lost you,” Chris pointed out, “but out of tragedy came opportunity.”

“Who knows what would’ve happened, had it not been for my near brush with death,” I agreed. “Still, I wish they hadn’t tried so hard to kill me.”

“That they did, Jim,” Chris agreed. “I still can’t believe the records from the emergency room didn’t mention your black stools. Not even once! That should have been the presenting symptom, but all they listed was enteritis.”

“It wasn’t as if I didn’t try to tell them. Maybe I should’ve told them ‘merde noire’ or ‘mélène’,” I exclaimed.

“It wouldn’t have helped,” Chris countered. “With your accent, they’d have assumed you were speaking in English. It’s still a mystery as to what happened with the doctor’s notes. She sent them with you in the ambulance, but that was the last anyone ever saw of them.”

“And even in the veterans’ hospital, they fucked up,” I exclaimed. “Feeding me salmon steak when I was supposed to be on a mechanical soft diet. It’s lucky I didn’t accidentally swallow a bone. There were sure enough of them. Even one bone could have ripped the tear back open.”

“That would've only moved up the endoscopy.”

“Ah yes, the second endoscopy. What they called a ‘fibrio’. Swallowing a garden hose without anesthesia was insanity. It’s a wonder they could get a decent look at the tear in the short time they had that thing down my throat.”

“The good news is that you’ve been fine ever since,” Chris said reassuringly.

“Better than fine,” I replied, “’cause I’ve got you.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Chris agreed.

The aftermath of my brush with death had certainly been difficult. With only half as many circulating blood cells, even walking took a lot of effort. Thank god for Chris. He doted after me like a mother hen. However, there was no way for me to go back to work in the lab. I wouldn’t have been up to it for at least a month afterward. Just walking a block was exhausting. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when Chris left to go home for Christmas, and then to start his new life back in America. That would have been less than a month away!

However, staying away from the lab also gave me time to think. I went over the data and realized I’d not only failed to make much progress, but that many of the assumptions about how the technology worked were fundamentally flawed. The bottom line was that the equipment I’d come to utilize couldn’t meet my requirements under any circumstances. Perhaps one day the computer power needed to resolve the inconsistencies in acoustic pathways might exist, but that was perhaps years or even decades in the future.

With no possible way forward, there was no point in continuing my fellowship in Paris. It would be better to pursue my research using conventional technologies more readily available in the U.S. With that in mind, I asked Chris if he’d be interested in having me go back home with him. The way his face lit up when I asked him that was priceless.

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Thursday, July 25, 2024

“Wake up, Jim, we’re about to land,” Chris said as he shook my shoulder. “You slept the whole way, right through dinner and breakfast. The food was actually decent too.”

“Huh?” was all the response I could muster.

“We’re about to land in Paris, babe,” he repeated.

The sudden jolt of the landing gear hitting the runway brought me to full consciousness.

Although de Gaulle Airport was much as I remembered it, the process of passport control and customs was so much more streamlined now. Waiting for us in the arrivals lounge, I would have recognized Stephan anywhere, even though his hair was completely white now. He looked spry for a man approaching eighty.

“Chris, James, you two look exactly the same as I remember you,” Stephan began.

“As do you,” Chris replied.

“But with a lot less hair in my case,” I quipped and we all laughed.

“I’ve trained many young apprentices since we met,” Stephan continued. “You, Chris, are the only one who went on to teach the craft to others. You’ve undoubtedly trained many times as many students as I have.

“I know you must be tired, so we shall drive straight to the workshop and get you settled into your apartment. Tonight, however, I’ve invited some friends and former students to a reception in your honor. Tonight we shall celebrate twenty years of friendship…”

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