Bachelor(ette) Party

I can’t believe what happened today. Right before opening the yoga studio for my class this morning, I received a call from my colleague and studio owner, Mario. “I just wanted to tell you that a group of 10 girls will be trying your class today. They’ve already paid,” he explained.

“What kind of group?” I had a strange feeling in my gut.

“Well, it’s a group of friends…they all know each other…you’ll see.”

I didn’t like this answer one bit. “It sounds peculiar,” I said.

Mario paused and giggled just slightly, I could see him smiling into the phone. He was thinking “Ha, ha, ha. You’re a fucking sucker! Eat it!”

“What kind of group?” I asked again since he was not going to elaborate.

“It’s just a group of girls doing a wedding party for their friend.”

This was very strange. “Is this something you are going to start offering regularly?” I asked.

“No, no. It’s just this one time,” he replied.

“Okay,” I answered with hesitation. “Have any of them done yoga before?”

Mario paused, “Ummm. I think one or two of them have…”

I did not like this one bit. I opened the studio and greeted my students who came every Monday morning. Soon it was time to start class but the group of girls had not arrived. I stood in front of my class, “Today we have a group coming. They are not here yet, so we are going to start a little late,” I explained as I walked back to the front desk.

Five minutes later, I heard laughter coming up Rue des héros, my favorite street. A group of girls walked in. One was blind-folded.

“Hello,” said one of the girls with a professional camera in her hand. The whole group broke into laughter. “This is a surprise for our friend. She doesn’t know where she is,” the camera girl gestured to her friend. The blind-folded girl stood in anticipation and smiled shyly. She wore a fluorescent orange t-shirt. Her friends had written all over it in black permanent marker. Things like, “I’m forever screwed” or “Life is now over.”

“Oh, okay,” I replied thinking to myself “Great, my yoga class is a funny activity for the bride-to-be. Gee, I am so lucky.”

“Sorry we’re late. Is there a place for us to change?” the girl with the camera added.

“Sure,” I said, “Class is about to start. How long do you think you’ll need to get dressed?”

“Two minutes,” she said and a trail of girls giggled their way into the dressing room.

I walked back into the yoga room. My regular students and I sat in anticipation. We listened to the group of girls whispering and cackling in the dressing room. While the group of girls changed their clothes, I decided to talk to my students, something I normally don’t do, but I was feeling so irritated. I could no longer contain it all. “Today, class will be a little special,” I began, “Mario decided to send us a group of girls for their bachelorette party and most of them have never done yoga…I’m not exactly okay with this but I’m going to make the most of it.” I typically did not express myself like this, so it must have been a little worrisome. “I will most likely keep it basic today so just bear with me.” I smiled an unhappy smile.

The group of gigglers made it into the room. Two girls helped the blindfolded girl into a sitting position on the mat. My students watched the bride-to-be. With one swift movement, the girls removed her blind fold. Mystery activity revealed! She gasped and looked around. She looked pleased as she took in the colorful room and all the people around her. She glanced happily at each of her friends. They giggled again.

“Here it goes,” I said to myself, “the party has begun.” We started our yoga class as usual. I wondered if they thought it was funny, ridiculous, or peaceful. I could not say. They seemed to be enjoying themselves though one of the girls had an incredibly hard time making her body do what the rest of us were doing. When I’d ask the class to sit up straight, she would hunch her back and melt over. When I’d ask the class to stay on their stomachs with their hands on the floor, she would place her forearms on the mat and pull herself up in a discomforting way.

I tried to show her the safe way. I tried to adjust her. I tried to get her to look at the students around her and copy her friends who seemed to “get it”, but she was completely out-of-tune with her body. I could almost see her having a semi-out-of-body-experience. It was as if she was observing her body and asking it in utter confusion, “Why won’t you do what I ask? Why?”

Half-way during the class, the bride-to-be got teary eyed and tried not to cry. One of her friends patted her on the back. She wiped her eyes. I wasn’t sure if yoga had been the catalyst. Had yoga released her bottled up emotions? Or was she just touched in general by what her friends had organized for her?

During our routine, hardly any photos were taken. But, as soon as we got into “Happy Baby”, a pose on our backs holding our feet, the photographer assumed her role. I think she had been waiting for this type of funny pose the entire time. Unfortunately for her, we didn’t do any funky moves or shaking or whatever she might have expected.

(Important side note: While all of this was going on, I also had a new student who wore a veil the entire session. At one point, she dramatically rolled into a ball complaining of abdominal pains. And my favorite, she asked questions and made comments at inopportune moments. She was the cherry on the Tequila Sunrise at this party and she was even wearing red pants.)

After class ended, the bride’s friends put the blindfold back on her. She would not see where she was as far as neighborhoods go. The group of girls got dressed and thanked me as they left. “That was excellent,” one of the girls even said.

After they left, I called Mario and basically told him to never do that to me again. He pleaded he didn’t know there would be cameras and blindfolds. But, either way, he didn’t give a shit. I just wanted him to know that I would not be doing that again unless it was a private group.

I took a couple deep breaths. The class had been good for my students, or so it seemed. It had not been good for me, but I had accepted my situation and done the best I could. It was over and done with. No need to think about it anymore, was there? Except for one little nagging feeling occurred as I tidied up the empty room. I kept thinking, “Wow! This will be a great story to tell.” And that, my friends, is my Bachelorette party for you (with a veiled cherry on top).

Hairtales from the Cursed

It’s time to write about a recurring trauma in my life. (Heavy-hearted sigh) Another hair-do massacre has taken place. As I write, I am recovering from a heart-attack directly linked to the hair dressers. It’s still the first 24 hours, so I am in a fragile state. I’m hoping by tomorrow I’ll only have minor palpitations. From some luck of the draw, I have been cursed since birth with some kind of Hair-Do Curse.

But, before I tell you about today, let’s take a trip down Hair-Don’t Memory Lane. I’ll narrow it down to the Top 5. They are in chronological order. And this story is rather long so you might want to save these tales for a day when you have time to sit and read.

Hairtale 1 (Note: If you have The Curse, there are signs of it early in life.)

From birth to the age of about 12, this was my recurring hair-dresser routine: “How would you like your hair cut today?” the hair dresser asks.

“Well, I’m trying to grow it out. So, please just give it a trim,” I reply.

“Okay. No problem.” Then, scissor noises: hack hack hack. Twenty minutes later, hair-dryer noises. I glimpse in the mirror several times at the hair-ball manifesting before my eyes. I try not to watch as every curl is brushed out into a fluffy cotton-candy mass. Then there are hair-spray noises. The hair-dresser pats my afro while smiling. Then, she whirls my chair around so I am facing myself head-on in the mirror.

My mother stands behind me and asks, “Oh, don’t you just love it?”

How the hell can I say “no”? I can’t. I cannot say a word. I am concentrating too hard to keep back the tears and control my mouth which so badly wants to contort and quiver. I am ugly. I am so ugly. I hate how I look. “Get me out of here. Why did you do this to my hair? Would you want to look like this?” That’s what I want to say to the hair dresser, but I can’t because my mother just asked me to say how much I like it.

We cannot leave fast enough. My mother cannot unlock her car fast enough. I cannot hide in the back with my coat over my head fast enough. I cry the entire way home. Once we are home, my mother gets out her hair dryer and straightens my hair. She makes me feel normal again. She fixes the awful mess. This scene happens several times a year for years.

Hairtale 2 (Note: The Curse is most dangerous when in your own hands.)

At the age of about 13 years old, I decide my hair is now in my own hands, for better or for worse. It’s the 80’s and I feel very free. Girls are wearing their hair very short. Long bangs and short sides are in. There is room for mistakes (and I’ll need all the room I can get when cutting my own hair). Why not experiment? One day, I’m alone in my room listening to music and staring into my mirror. I love the scarf my new boyfriend gave me. It looks like a long dirty piece of gauze around my neck. I say to myself, “Time for a haircut.” I get the scissors. My hair is almost chin length when I straighten it with a hair dryer.

I will look good with short sides and long bangs. Snip, snip, snip. I glance in the mirror. Not bad. I think the sides could be a little shorter. Snip, snip, snip. I can see my scalp peaking beneath the short hairs on the side of my head. My heart starts racing. Do I want it this short? Yes! I look punk, it’s a new me. This is a perfect role for me. I pull my long bangs over my left eye and cut them into a point. Even better! That night at dinner, my parents take turns looking back and forth at each other.

“Did you have brain surgery, kid?” asks my father dryly. Clearly he does not like my new do.

My mother looks confused. “Did you mean to cut it that short?”

“Yes,” I say and sit-up straighter, “I like it this way.” I untie the grey rag I’m wearing and re-wrap it around my neck.

“You look like a Garbage-Patch Kid,” my sister says flatly while chewing her food.

No one seems to appreciate my new look. For weeks, I maintain this look. Time passes and we are now staying in a hotel in Denver, a Christmas vacation for the family. My sister and I have our own room. While my sister is sitting on the bed listening to Depeche Mode on her Walkman, I stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom, alone. The sides of my hair have grown-in quite a bit, time for a trim.

I get out my scissors and trim my sides dangerously close. The sides look like an uneven army buzz. There are too many holes. I need to smooth it all out. I dig through my make-up purse and find a disposable orange Bic razor. I carefully begin to shave the sides to get them nice and even.

I nick myself a little and a couple drops of blood rise to the surface of my scalp. I stand back and observe the art project in front of me. My head is shiny. I am not going for a shiny head look. I look like the freak from the Thompson Twins video. I begin to panic. I comb my bangs over the side of my head, like and old man trying to cover a bald spot. My bangs are too long. I neatly cut them to fit perfectly around my ear. It hides the baldness but looks like a wig. I try to stay calm but I can’t.

This is a disaster. My heart beats faster. “Diane!” I cry out for my sister. Maybe she can help me or at least comfort me. “Diane!”

She can’t hear me, she is singing with her music. Diane is in her own little world. I hurry out of the bathroom and walk up to her bed, “Diane!” I scream.

She flinches a little. She takes off her headset and looks at me.

“I totally fucked up my hair! I totally fucked it up!” I start crying.

“What did you do?” She stands up. I walk back to the bathroom and she follows me. We are both standing under the bright lights in our cramped hotel bathroom. I lift my make-shift hair flap and uncover the baldness.

“What the fuck, Sunny? Why did you do that?”

I stare at myself red-eyed and ugly in the mirror.

“Did you shave it with a Bic?”

“Yes”, I sob, “What am I going to do?”

“Dad is going to kill you, Sunny!” Diane was not offering any comfort whatsoever.

“No shit, Diane! Shut up! Help me, god!” I snap.

“What do you want me to do, Sunny? I can’t fix that shit. Cover it back up with your hair, they might not see it.”

I pat my hair flap back over the side and spray some Aqua Net to hold it in place. “Does it look normal?” I keep patting my hair down. “Does it look okay?”

She cocks her head. “I don’t know, Sunny. It’s pretty bad. Just don’t show them that side…”

Hairtale 3 (Note: Even family members who love you could have The Curse)

Around 18 years old, my mother decides my hair is too dark. I am no longer her golden-haired little girl. Why not add some highlights? My mother buys a DIY highlight kit at Target. It comes with a scary rubber white cap punctured with miniscule holes. She puts it on my head and pulls hairs through the tiny holes with a plastic hook. I look like a cancer victim suffering chemo. We wait for the bleach to do its magic. We take off the cap and rinse my hair. Yellow strings hang randomly around my head. My mother studies my hair, “I think we need to add more highlights around your face,” she says and smears a bunch of highly toxic white cream on my hair around my face, especially above my forehead.

Being the trusting soul I am, I busy myself with more important things like talking on the phone. After a while, my mother tells me to rinse my hair. I rinse it and look in the mirror. I have a thick white stripe down the top of my head.

“Oh, my god!” I scream, “Mom, I look like a fucking skunk! What did you do?”

My mother panics. This means she begins laughing, crying, and coughing at the same time. She can’t speak. She tries to cough up a few words, “Ohh.I’m.sorry. Maybe.it.will.look.better.when.we.dry.it.”

I am not convinced. We dry it. Do you think it looks better dry? My mother speeds back to the store and buys some brown hair dye. We dye my hair back. It is fine for several months, but then the brown begins to fade and the white stripe reappears. (At least it has considerably grown out and it looks kind of SJP Sex in the City-ish but this was pre-Sex in the City days.)

Hairtale 4 (Note: If you have The Curse, you can expect at least one standing-ovation performance.)

Fast-forward to myself at 30 years old. My husband and I are living in Brussels. My sister is about to get married. Two days before I am flying to Arizona, I decide to get caramel highlights like Jennifer Aniston. (And you all know the color I’m talking about.) Just down the street is a hair-salon. A petit pretentious male has me sit down in a sleek black swivel chair. He brings out a book with different highlight colors. “So, show me which color you like?” He opens the shiny book. There are strips of different colored hair with fancy names underneath.

“Oh, I like that one, Honey Caramel,” I point to the hair strip. It is a beautiful warm color. I imagine how great my hair will look in this golden shade.

“Perfect”, he says. He takes the book away and starts to prepare my selection in a black plastic bowl. Very hip music is playing in the salon. Very hip people work there. I am going to leave looking very hip. My hairdresser sets a little timer on the shelf behind me. I wait while the chemicals do their magic.

“Ding, ding, ding,” rings the timer. It’s time to rinse my hair. Oh, I’m so excited. He rinses and rinses and then he dries while I look in the mirror. Do you think my hair is Honey Caramel? I don’t think my hair is Honey Caramel. My hair is Burning Bush Red. He finishes drying my hair.

“All done,” he says and walks over to the cash register.

As I’m paying, something is just not right. Should I say something? I hesitate. I finish paying. And then I say it. “It looks red.”

“Red?” he shakes his head, “No, it’s copper.”

“It looks red,” I repeat. “This is not the color I chose.”

“Yes, you chose this color,” he says quite confidently.

I begin to boil inside. “No. I chose Honey Caramel. Show me the book. I’ll show you,” I say.

He looks very hesitant. “Look, Madame, this is the color you chose.”

The two of us are standing in front of the mirror looking at my hair. By now, the other hair-dressers stop what they are doing. Everyone is listening. Everyone is looking at me and my red hair. He goes over to the book shelf and brings the hair samples to me. He opens the book. It is not the same book he initially showed me.

“This isn’t the book I looked at. This book doesn’t have the color I chose.” Now I am livid and shaking. He is trying to deceive me. It is unbelievable.

He smiles wryly, “This is the only book we have,” he says while making eye contact with all the other hair dressers. This is his cue to them, “Go along with what I say.”

“No. No. There is a different book with Honey Caramel.” I shake my head. My voice is getting louder. I’m still standing in front of the mirror. Customers are looking at me. “This is red. My hair is red!” I scream.

“Madame. Please calm down. Your hair is not red,” he says, “It’s copper.”

This is when I lose it. I look at the customers. “Does this look like Honey Caramel to you?” I scream while pointing to my head. I make eye contact with each customer. They avert their glances. No one wants to acknowledge me.

“Madame. You are going to have to leave. You are making a scene.”

“This is not Honey Caramel!” I bellow, “You are lying! You’re lying! My hair is red!” I scream on the top of my lungs. My throat hurts. I am losing control. Mustering up the last of my energy I look at the customers again and say, “This man is a liar! He’s a liar! I wanted Honey Caramel hair and he made it red! Don’t come here!” I leave the salon shaking. My breath is irregular. I make it back home.

My husband doesn’t understand what is happening. I am trembling. I am pacing back in forth in our apartment. I am acting crazy. I explain to my best ability what happened at the salon. My husband is upset. He leaves our apartment in a hurry and goes to the salon. I continue pacing back and forth. My husband is back within minutes.

“I can’t get your money back, Sunny. The man refuses but if you go back, he will fix it. That’s the best I can do.”

“Go back? Go back?” I holler. “I made a fucking scene in there. I can’t ever go back there…EVER!”

“Well, I don’t know what else to do,” my husband says.

The next day, I go to a different salon. They make my color better. In fact, everyone at my sister’s wedding comments on how great my hair color was, some auburn shade that is impossible to recreate considering it was two different hair colors from two different salons. To this day, that is my worst case-scenario regarding my behavior. So, imagine the fear in my husband last night when I come home with Hair Catastrophe Number 5!


Hairtale 5 (Note: At some point, we the cursed need to accept our destiny.)

Let’s fast forward to the present. I am now a mother of two little girls. Three years ago, some woman hacked my hair into a mess of two layers, one very short, one very long. I never went to her again. I have been, ever since, re-growing my hair. Yesterday, it was pretty long and almost layer-free. I was feeling happy that my hair was finally long again. I have been going to the same hair salon for two years now without any drama.

Yesterday, my little girls wanted to get their hair cut. I needed a hair-cut too. We arrive at the salon and it is virtually empty, no waiting! The hair dressers know us very well. We know them. They know how picky I am. I never want a style, just a trim. I always leave with wet hair. I am the simplest of customers. What could go wrong? A thin young black man with a lisp and a lopsided afro is going to cut my hair. He has cut it before. But, I remind him again, “So, you know I am growing-out my hair, right?”

“Yes,” he mumbles and rolls his eyes, “Just a trim”, he adds, “You’ve told me before, if I cut one inch, it shrinks up 5 inches. I remember.”

Pleased with his response I smile and say, “Okay…”

And we are off. Snip-snip here and snip-snip there. I pay little attention. Soon he is done. “How does it feel?” he asks me.

I quickly run my fingers through my hair. Something is off. Towards my scalp it feels very thick but as I get closer to the ends, it feels dangerously thin, almost stringy. As my hair is wet and there is no way in hell I am going to let anyone dry my hair into a shameful cotton candy bliss, I pull my hair up with an elastic band and pay. We go home.

My girls are happy with their haircuts. I begin to dry mine. Something is not right. I dry it a little more. My hair is all different lengths but can be summed-up as follows: there is one short, dense and curly top layer and one long, thin and stringy bottom layer.

This can’t be! I look in the mirror. I apply some fancy hair products and try to even it out a little. The top layer shrinks and becomes very bulbous. The bottom layer hangs there like broken violin strings.

“I don’t like my hair cut.” I repeat this several times to my girls. My husband arrives late that evening. I look at him and say, “I think I got a super bad haircut.”

He slaps his thighs angrily, “Oh, God! Again? Why? Why do you get your hair cut? I don’t understand!”

“Never mind,” I say. He doesn’t get it. He thinks it’s my fault. I try and forget this massacre. Maybe in the morning it will be better. I get a great night’s sleep and when I wake-up, I go to the mirror. Strings of hair dangle in random places. A thick top layer has shrunk and formed a toupee on top of my head. I go downstairs. “Look!” I say with desperation. “Look at my fucking hair! What is this?”

My husband looks at my hair. He tugs at a few pieces. “Why is it all uneven like this? It’s all different lengths.”

“I know!” I scream. “I have to go back! I’m going to have to chop it all off! Why can’t I have long hair? Why? Is there a fucking law out there posted at every hair salon? Why is it so hard for people to just let me grow my hair long?”

“Sunny, you can't go back there acting like this. If you go, you have to be calm!” he says.

“I know! I’ll be calm!”

“It doesn’t look like it,” he says.

I hurry back upstairs after quickly swallowing a cup of coffee. I have no appetite to eat. I put my make-up on with a shaky hand. I try to breathe in and out slowly. I grab my coat and head back. “Stay calm. Stay calm” I say to myself all along the way. No scene today, that will get me nowhere.

I arrive at the hair salon. I spot the guy who cut my hair. I gesture for him to come over. I stay calm. “Hi,” I say smiling. I explain the dilemma. He leads me over to a chair. He stands behind me. He doesn’t see the problem. He doesn’t understand why I don’t like the “cottage cheese meets string cheese” look he gave me. He says he barely cut my hair. He smiles and condescendingly says I’m just not used to having my hair cut. He repeats this phrase several times. I have no response to his utterly dumb statement so I just stay quiet.

He gets his manager who knows me very well. The manager says he will cut my hair again. The other hairdresser stands alongside us. The manager wets my hair and combs through it. “You layered it too much,” he says to his colleague. “She likes a more natural look”, he adds. He begins to snip. “You want me to even this out, right?” he asks me.

“Yes, but I don’t want short hair. I have been growing it out for two years,” I say staying calm.

Ten more minutes of snipping. It’s getting short. “It’s short,” I say in a panic. He glances up at me but keeps cool. He has no choice. Obviously there has been too much damage. He finally finishes. “It’s much shorter than I wanted,” I say sadly combing my fingers through my very short locks.

“Yes, yes, I know” he agrees, “but this is the only way for your hair to recover.”

The young hair dresser comes over to me, “I’m sorry,” he looks me in the eyes. No one ever apologizes in France so this actually makes me feel better, it does. The manager tells me he is sorry. He gives me a coupon for a free haircut. Everyone says goodbye to me. I walk home thinking, “This is just my fate. I need to accept it. I shouldn’t feel so shocked.”

I walk inside our home. “So? Let’s see,” says my husband.

I walk into the room. He looks at me and smiles but says nothing. My daughters come and look. “What do you think?” I ask. My eldest gives me an apologetic smile. She thinks hard and says, “Now you have short hair like me.”

My little one says, “And like me!” My poor little girl has curly hair like me. Yesterday, I witnessed her going through the same agonizing afro-blow of shame. Unlike myself, when the hairdresser asked her if she liked her round hair-do, she replied, “I don’t like it!” She looked over at me sadly. I knew what she was feeling and it broke my heart. There she was, my little sweetie sitting so innocently with her light brown cotton candy head. “I don’t like it, Mommy”, she repeated trying not to cry.

I said the only soothing words one can say in her situation, “Do you want the lady to straighten it?” (I think my little one might also have The Curse.)

Support lines are now open. Call us for more information on support groups in your area. You are not alone.

The Drive-by Pedicure

This is a sad story. I don’t mean the year 2000 definition of “sad” like something you’d say to your friend who leaves his house wearing tube socks. “Oh, dude, that’s just sad.” I mean a truly sad story.

Most of you are already well-aware of the level of respect you can find in Marseille from my other tales or from your personal experience here. I have now experienced, on a scale of 1 – 10, Level Minus One (-1). Because the Marseille Respect Scale (MRS) does in fact reach into the negatives.

The other morning, I was walking in a neighborhood called Cours Julien. This area is as dirty as Rue des Héros, however, it is much bigger. It contains many little streets which serve as open sewage canals as well. They are semi-pedestrian zones, because the pedestrian concept is incomprehensible in Marseille. All pedestrian zones in Marseille accept several arbitrarily parked cars so that all pedestrians literally have to climb over them or scrape their bodies against a wall to get passed.

All semi-pedestrian zones also include scooters whizzing buy, loud motorcycles, dogs without leashes, a couple “gypsies” in long dirty skirts holding half-naked babies begging for money and unconscious people talking on their phones (but the latter is normal everywhere in 2012).

The only difference between Marseille and third world cities is the lack of goats and cows roaming around. But, maybe I’ll distribute a few and see how that works out.

Getting back to Cours Julien, it is also home to the homeless who sit in large groups drinking all day and peeing in the streets. It is home to loads of “Bio” (organic) restaurants, unique clothing boutiques, and used book stores. It has lots of cafés as well and draws crowds at all hours.

And just a side note, in Marseille most people who eat organic food are unemployed or actors and they in general smell and think capitalism needs to die. I know I’m generalizing and stepping over the line, but this is my time to express myself, so, too bad.

Getting back to my story, I had just finished teaching a yoga class and was feeling very calm and peaceful while walking down the semi-pedestrian street that had huge mounds of orange dog shit every couple of steps. But, I was fine with it. Acceptance is the key to life anyway, isn’t it?

I was crossing a tiny road and heard a scooter to my left. I turned my head to see how close it was, it was not very close. I had plenty of time to cross the path that was no more than three feet wide. I crossed it in less than one second and heard the scooter speeding up.

All of a sudden, he swerved to hit me and sped away. He ran over my toes. It didn’t hurt but my adrenaline was pumping and I kept my head down and kept walking, a natural instinct I have adopted here as people like to provoke each other. A woman on her cell phone who was a couple steps ahead of me turned around alarmed, “Did that scooter just hit you on purpose?” she asked.

I looked up at her and slowly answered, “Yeah. He did.” I don’t know why, but I felt like a total loser. I felt like someone who gets picked on in high school for no reason. I felt embarrassed someone had seen that happen to me.

She turned back around and cried into her phone “People here are sick! Some guy just ran over a woman on purpose!”

After she said those words, it dawned on me the cruelty and heartlessness of such an act. I suddenly filled with sadness. My toes hurt a little but I was too nervous to look down. What if they were broken or worse, not even there anymore? I slowly looked down. A thick black greasy line marked all my prettily painted red toes. I wasn’t bleeding. It didn’t hurt. I was okay. That dude was a fucking asshole. Why did he swerve to hit me like that? I wasn’t in his way. I didn’t understand. He just felt like being a dick. That made me sad. I silently made it to the metro and went home.

As I walked through my neighborhood almost back at our house, I tried to call my husband, but he didn’t answer his phone. As soon as I heard him on voice mail, I felt like crying. I started to leave my message, “Hi. It’s me. Something bad just happened to me. I’m okay. I’m fine. But, a motorcycle…ran…over…me (sob sob sob) and and I’m okay, but I’m just (sob sob sob) really sad (sob sob sob)…” And I hung up and tried to stop crying.

I don’t know if the crying was just energy being released after the motorcycle adrenaline rush. I was fine, why was I crying? I felt ridiculous. Was I wallowing in self-pity or was it all justified? Minutes later, I got home and Jeeves arrived to work on our translating project.

“Jeeves,” I said while preparing him one of my infamous Nespresso lattes with a little bit of cream and some whole milk. “I was kind of aggressed today.”

I told him my story and he replied, “You know, Sunny. When you go to the zoo, you walk by the cages and look at the animals…and you say, “Oh, look at the animals” You don’t try to understand the animals. You don’t try to change the animals. That is how I see Marseille. Why would you try and change the animals? You can’t. It’s just impossible. Don’t try to understand them. Because they are just animals.”

Jeeves was right and I was glad he said that to me. At least it made me feel better. Later that evening, I told my husband about my accident. “Was the guy trying to steal your purse?” he asked bewildered.

“No”, I replied.

“So, he just ran over you like that?”

“Yep,” I answered.

My husband shook his head. “I don’t understand people. He could’ve hurt you.”

“I know,” I said, “but he would not have cared. He tried to hit me and ran over my foot. Then he just kept on going. He’s just an angry person. It’s sad that our city is full of people like this. It’s hard knowing that we live in a city like this.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

“Look,” I proffered my lovely black marked toes.

He shook his head again while dragging his fingers across my foot. “Are they black because they’re bruised?”

“No, that’s from the tires.” I replied. And then I thought, “In another city, this would be an act of violence, some kind of aggression. In Marseille, it is nothing more than a drive-by pedicure…”

Guess What I Saw

Guess what I saw?
I can barely contain my excitement.
Let’s start with Rue des Héros because I have several tales to share.
It’s best to start out with the dirtiest street I’ve yet to meet: rue des héros. Remember this one?

The other day as I walked uphill to the yoga room, ready to open it for
my morning class, I could see from afar two people seated on the stoop. I could tell they were not yoga students, but most likely some drunks which is common enough and a problem I’ve dealt with before.

“Oh, great” I muttered to myself, “I’m going to have to say something diplomatic and hope they’ll leave.” I continued my walk upwards while inhaling fresh and stale urine smells rising off the pavement. Shit from every species that exists was smeared on the streets and sidewalks. I made my daily eye contact with the older prostitute who is always waiting on the left wearing normal clothes, as normal as a secretary waiting for the first client to walk in the door.

Finally I made it up to the blue stoop. What did I see? Two seated women, one inserting a needle into her arm.

“Hello,” I said, “I’m going to open the room now…soooo” I let my words trail off hoping it was enough to convey some kind of message that meant it was time to leave.

“Okay, okay, no problem,” said the women who didn’t have the needle in her arm. The woman shooting up sat smiling and didn’t say a word. I opened the room and got things ready and then peaked out the window to see if the two women were still there. Yep, they were still there.

Some of my students started to arrive. One walked in clutching her heart, “Did you see those women out there?” she gasped.

“Yeah, I know. I’m trying to get them to leave.” I opened the door again. “Okay”, I said in a somewhat loud voice, “You have to leave now. I have students coming.”

One of the ladies rose and tried to make her friend get up. It didn’t look like her friend could stand so it took a little coercion and the two were soon on their way, arm-in-arm.

My colleague Angelo arrived and heard the other students up in arms about the scene they had just witnessed. So, I said to him “People were shooting up on the stoop…It was disturbing…”

Angelo shrugged his shoulders, “To each his own vice”, he looked unaffected. “It’s not my problem,” he added. “Why should I care what they do?”

“Nice,” I thought to myself even though in reality, it’s true, those people shooting up don’t concern us. Of course, I’d prefer if they did their “vices” elsewhere.

Several weeks later, I was once again walking uphill, stench of pee and poo, hooker to the left, two druggies on the stoop. “Oh, great!” I mumbled expecting a needle or a can of beer. But this time, two women were seated on either side of a little piece of paper filled with white powder.

“Bonjour,” I said to them.

Without a care in the world, one of the women continued her snorting. The other one looked up at me. “Hello” she answered.

“I’m opening the room. You’re gonna have to leave now.” I said a little less diplomatically than I have said in the past.

“Yes, yes, of course. We’re just finishing up,” she said as if I were in-line waiting for the loo. Once again, I prepared the yoga room and went back to see if my little coke-heads were still there. What do you think? Yeah. They were still there. I opened the door and stared at them. “Time to go. This is NOT okay. Time to go,” I said trying to wave them away like flies at a picnic.

“I know, I know…”said the more sober of the two. “I’m trying to get my friend to leave,” she turned to her friend and started pulling on her arm, “Let’s go!”

Her friend hunched over, smiled, but didn’t say a word. Finally she managed to get her friend up and the two weaved their way down the street.

Last but not least is what I saw on this infamous street just last week while with my friend Jeeves. As we walked down, to the left AND to the right, two men were peeing in unison.

“Look at that!” exclaimed Jeeves, “Not one man peeing, but two…and at the same time! Unbelievable! They might as well claim this street a public urinal, we’ll hang a sign! I can’t believe this street is called Rue des Héros. It should be called Piss Alley!”

“It’s beautiful, Jeeves! I love it! The irony is just excellent, excellent! The street has to be called Rue des Héros, it’s perfect!”

“This is no Street for Heroes”, said Jeeves, “this is a fucking urinal!”

“I know, isn’t it great? I love it! This street couldn’t get better and its name is very important, no need to change it at all!”

So, there you have my vignette of Rue des Héroes stories, but there’s more! Yes, there are other great neighborhoods. Take for example the area near La Conception, a hospital. We were all in the car, my husband and I in the front, our girls in the back. While we were stopped at a red light, I looked out the window. We were stopped just in front of the hospital. “What is this hospital known for?” I asked my husband who is in the medical industry.

“I think it’s a mental institute…” he said.

“Really?” I asked.

Just then, as if on cue, an older man in scrubs and white slippers slunk his way down the sidewalk. He was holding his ass, the seat of his pants was ripped open. We watched him in unison.

“Scary,” said my husband.

I burst out laughing. “Do you think he is coming or going?” I asked.

“I don’t want to know,” he said, “that’s just scary.”

Feeling excited, I replied, “I love it! Look at him! It’s perfect. He’s holding his ass and walking past the mental institute in slippers…”

Do I sound demented with all my disturbing excitement at these scenes? I figure, if you can’t appreciate this type of thing, you have no place in a big city, especially Marseille which is definitely the strangest place I’ve ever known.

How about a story linked to nature? A park, for example? Sure, coming right up. Marseille has a very nice park named Parc Borély. We love to take the girls there with their bikes. It’s safe: no cars, no dogs. However, there are tons of bikes even some funky ones made for 4 that remind me of the old buggies from a black and white movie. Often you see parents pedaling in the front, children in the back. These things are so heavy you often hear squeals coming from the parents, typically the mother, who loses control of the steering(women drivers!).

Well, we love to go there when it’s nice and sunny. They have a big pond with a café next to it. There is even a churros stand complete with little cups of Nutella for dipping. (Only in France!) Their cotton candy is bigger than two adult heads side-by-side. (Barbe à Papa which translates as “Daddy’s beard”) They also have nice open grassy areas for playing soccer or laying out a nice picnic. There is even a rose garden and a little corner with a small pond and a rock wall.

A couple Sundays ago, our girls were happily riding their bikes. A crowd had formed around the little pond so we all stopped to see what was happening. Some ducks? Some fish? We peered down into the still water. “Look,” pointed my husband. A small animal was treading back in forth. It was a rat!

My girls stared in fascination as did I. A little boy kept throwing bread but no fish or ducks dared to come in the vicinity. Soon, a tiny splash came from the rock wall. Another rat joined his playmate.

“Look, look!” pointed Claire.

“Oh, they’re so cute”, said Eva.

I watched them, their little legs paddling around, long pink tails trailing behind them. They’d dash back into the rocks only to peek out and jump back into the pond instants later. At one point there were at least four little rats swimming in the pond.

Claire leaned dangerously close over the rocks down below. “Claire!” my husband’s voice boomed. “Get her away from the water,” he said to me.

“Do they bite?” asked Eva.

“They could bite and they are very dirty animals so you could get a serious infection. Never try and touch a rat.” I said.

“Let’s go!” said my husband turning and ready to continue our stroll. Enough rat action for him.

“No!” they pleaded, “we want to see!”

“Let’s stay a little longer,” I told my husband.

The girls watched in awe. Some rats literally swam under the water for seconds at a time.

“Wow, they can hold their breath and swim super well. I totally understand why they like sewers. They are made for sewers!” I said.

My husband looked disgusted. We stood in silence watching. “Only in Marseille...” I said.

My husband laughed and shook is head.

“Only in Marseille do you come to a park to watch rats swim in a pond,” I added.

It was another great demented vision for me to savor. However, that night, little Claire had a nightmare. In the morning she said, ”Mommy, I had a bad dweem.”

“You had a bad dream?” I asked her. “What did you dream about?”

“I dweem that I fell in da watuh (water) and a wat (rat) bite my head!” she told me. (Poor Claire!!)

“Nice.” said my husband.

“Well, I guess we won’t have to worry about her getting too close to ponds and falling in.” I said.

And there you have it, folks: Druggies shooting up, coke heads snorting, men peeing in unison, a mental health patient holding his ass, and a band of rats swimming in a pond. This is what I saw.