An American Redneck in Paris, and Italy Too - part 3

(Murphys Law is still in effect even in Europe. Not sure who Murphy was, but damn he mustve had a hard life.)

An American Redneck in Paris,

and Italy Too - part 3

Written by T. L. O’Neal

 

   I did take a day trip to Pisa one day to see that leaning tower thing. Man was it leaning, it looked pure dangerous like that. If something like that was built in America it would have been tore down years ago for being a safety hazard. I did go to a pizza shop while I was there too, I asked for black olives to be put on it. That man looked at me like I was foolish. It came back with them on it but they were whole and still had the pits in them. It sure made for a crunchy pizza I tell you what and they kept rolling off too. They had them with eggplant and other weird things on those pies too, like squid and some stuff that I was afraid to even ask about. They didn’t even put pepperoni on them, now that’s just not right.

 

    After I ate I called the guy that I was staying with to come pick me up, which he did. He was a nice feller. He told me in broken English that he was going to show me a special road on the way back home. Now this peaked my interest somewhat, what’s so damn special about a road I thought? As we went on, I thought about it a bit. Maybe it was one of those roads that the Romans built or went by this or that thing, who knows.  When we got to the place he was talking about, it was all pretty with the woods covering both sides of the road.  The only things that I noticed out of place were all these women on both sides of it. They were in all forms of dress and undress about every 50 feet or so on both sides of the road, some didn’t even have tops on. Others looked like they were doing laundry or something, and some just stood beside the road with their tops completely off. I remember the weather it was cool and rainy that day, so they must have been some hot-blooded women I guess. Those truckers there sure were nice; they kept slamming on their brakes in front of us and stopping to she if those poor ladies needed a lift. I saw a few come out of the woods with some of those women; I think those truckers were helping them pick mushrooms or something like that. They sure looked tired and sweaty when they came out of those woods too. Driving trucks all day and they still have time to help them women pick mushrooms. It sure was good to see some nice people and not get spit on for a change.

 

     One thing that I noticed here is that people don’t follow the traffic rules very well. The police don’t seem too concerned over it either. A stoplight is just a mere suggestion I think. Those motorcycles and scooters will cut in between cars and people running lights like it was nothing. Never seen anything like it in my whole blame life. When we were getting close to the city we saw this motorcycle wreck. They weren’t wearing helmets and a man and woman were thrown into the road. We stopped to see if they needed any help but he waved us off with his bloody arm, smiling and waving saying they were ok. Those Italians are a tough lot of people.

 

   Well, with all that’s happened so far, I was getting homesick and to tell you the truth my damn nerves were shoot too. So I called the airline and changed my ticket, packed my bags and headed to the train station for another 14-hour train ride back to Paris. It was going to be a long trip, a stop here and a stop there.

 

      One stop this creepy guy got on, he was as nervous as a w***e in church. He looked like one of those addicts I saw so many of and it appeared he was getting the creepy crawlies. And wouldn’t you know it, with that big ole train and all those empty seats he sits right next to me, almost crawled up my a*s to tell you the truth. He wanted to know if I had anything, it must have been the hair and beard thing again. I was a little worried about this guy but he looked like he was suffering, so I gave him a Valium that I had leftover to settle his nerves a bit. He took it and left, thank God. So I drifted off to sleep a while later and then had a wake up call of sorts you might say.

 

     I woke up out of a sound sleep with this cop slapping a nightstick inches above my head, scared me half to death.

 

He was saying, “Passporta! Passporta!”

 

Boy, he sure looked pissed too. I fumbled around and found my passport and gave it to him.

 

He looked at it and said, “American!”

 

And then spit on my shoes and left. There goes that damn spitting again, I Suwannee. I was beginning to think that these people just don’t like Americans at all, at least the ones with long hair that I was sure of. Well sir, my nerves were a wreck from this little how ya do, and I had to go take a leak and bad. 

 

     So I got myself together and went to one of those broom closet toilets in the hall and had a good stream going. “Bang, Bang, Bang!” Lord have mercy, someone was banging on the door and was hollering something. Just my luck it was another one of those damn foreign cops. Actually in this situation I was the foreigner and not too damn happy about it either at the moment. I tried to put everything away in its rightful place, and fast. Of course I made a mess plus wet my pants and shoes to boot. Well at least it washed some of that guy’s spit off them anyhow. I opened up the door and he looked madder than a wet hen, with the temperament of one too. He looked at me like he could kill me then he held out his hand and said,

 

“Passporta, Passporta!”

 

Here we go again I thought; this wasn’t a big surprise to me anyhow the way my luck was going. He looked at it,

 

And said, “American!”

 

And spit at my shoes again, after I just had washed the damn things, sort of. I tell you these people over here are worst than a bunch of camels when it comes to all that spitting. I’ve had a bait of this s**t. I know one thing, I was damned tired of being treated like s**t and spit on. I can be treated like that in the states, at least when they cuss me I know what the hell they’re talking about and they don’t spit on you either.

                 

    The train was stopped on the border for over three hours and it seems they were looking someone. I bet it was that guy I gave that Valium to, and he was probably an ax murderer or serial killer. Or they caught him for something and he ratted me out for giving that Valium to him; blame it on the foreigner deal you know. I’ll probably get arrested for drug peddling or some s**t and spend the next 10 years in jail here getting spit on everyday for being a longhaired American. The movie “Midnight Express” came to my mind; I liked the movie but sure didn’t want to live it… if you catch my drift? I was all worried and imagining the worst of this situation when the train finally started to move again. I was relieved to say the least, wet pants and all.

 

    Well, we finally made it back into Paris, of course late and I had to get to the airport before I missed my flight. I was a little bit closer to home and could almost smell those Carolina pines.  At the airport the baggage handlers were on strike, seems all they do over here is strike and spit. Some probably can do both at the same time, now that’s a feat in itself. So I had to lug all that stuff of mine all over the airport, through the checkpoints, by the guards with the machineguns and metal detectors. I want you to know that I was searched seven times through that place. At least I wasn’t spit on again.

 

    While waiting, I saw this younger man with a bad leg trying to steal this old lady’s purse. There were enough cops around in that country to spit on me and search me 7 times, but for this old woman there was no one. No one seemed to care at all either; they just turned their heads and ignored it. I thought about helping her but the way things were going I would probably wind up being shoot. Anyway, next thing I knew this old man in his 70’s came out of nowhere and beat the fool out of that man with his cane, cussing him the whole time in French. Beat his a*s up good too and He ran off as best he could on his one good leg. I was right proud of that old French guy. When I made it to my plane they were just about done boarding and I was one of the last ones to get on. I sure was glad to be on that American plane with some real English speaking Americans I tell ya.

 

As the stewardess came by and asked if I wanted a drink,

 

I said, “sure why not. A Bourbon and Coke would be nice.”

 

My nerves were destroyed by this point and so was my sobriety. I hadn’t had a drink in years, but at that moment I didn’t much care anymore. After being spit on and all the other s**t, I just wanted some relief and quick. I had 3-4 of those and I’m ashamed to admit it but that was the best part of the whole damn trip. Other than that, it was a pretty uneventful trip back home on that jet. I just enjoyed the peace and the fact that I was on my way back home.

 

   When I got back to D.C., I caught the shuttle plane back to Raleigh. Wouldn’t you know it that same U.S. Congressman was on that flight too, set right behind me. That guy sure gets around. He asked how my trip was so I preceded to tell him about the spitting and all the rest. After a while I noticed that his eyes were glazing over and I figured that the question was only a way of being polite. I forgot what Southern manners were all about and it didn’t include spitting. About that time the stewardess came and asked the Congressman if he wanted a drink. Then the plane hit an air pocket or whatever it was and she fell right into my lap. Now the Congressman thought this was too funny, funnier than my story anyways because his eyes sure did sparkle then. It might have been because he got a beaver shot out of it when she fell backwards. She said she was sorry, and I said it was fine. We made it back to RDU and when we got to unload, there was my then girlfriend and her kids to greet me. I was tickled pink to be home, even after that hot steamy Southern air hit me for the first time, it felt like heaven. When I was getting off the plane the stewardess hugged me and whispered in my ear,

 

“It was good for me, was it good for you?” I just laughed and said goodbye.

 

     Of course my girlfriend saw all of this and being the jealous sort, laid right into my a*s about why that woman was hugging me and what did she say? I explained it as best as I could but I was just glad she didn’t spit on me. I was getting a little gun-shy about that s**t. We went to get my bags and guess what? They weren’t there. Either they didn’t get loaded or they were sent back to Paris. Whatever the case with the strike in effect now, I wasn’t going to see them bags for a good long while. So we went on our way home in the 95-degree weather with 35 miles to get home. I hadn’t slept in 31 hours but was feeling pretty good now that I was back on Tarheel soil again.

 

   When we got to the Southside of Raleigh, the blame car overheated. I wasn’t going to be outdone, not this close to home. So I cut the bad piece of the water hose off, put it back on and got some water and we were back on our way. I sure was glad to be home, even though it was a mess after me being gone that long, but it was home. The bags finally did get back to me like two weeks later from Paris, tore all to pieces and everything in them broken. But I was glad that it was the bag and not me that went back to that hellhole of a place.

 

    I guess you’re wondering what happened with the art show I was suppose to be in? Well, I left those paintings there and came home before it ever took place. I guess the paintings are still over there somewhere, probably with some old Italian fisherman spitting his last bit of moisture on them. They did send me a videotape of the show though, but of course it didn’t work. They use a different type of machine over there or something, so I had to find someone and get it converted over to the good old USA way for it to play right. I was invited back the next year but I declined and I never left the states again or do I ever plan to. I never painted like I did anymore either. My nerves snapped a bit again while I was gone and I never did get it back. It was the beginning of the end for life as I knew it. Wasn’t till a lot of years later and finally on meds for a long time did I find writing as a creative outlet. For the first time in years, I felt alive again. 

 

     I did get a letter from those two English girls wanting to come visit the next year, but my girlfriend at the time wasn’t very keen on the idea of it. I did learn a couple of things from this here experience, that if you ever decide to go to Europe and if you’re a male, always remember to take a hanky, and for God’s sakes get a haircut before you go.

 

(I wasn’t sure if it was because of the Gulf War or what it was why they hated Americans so much at that time. I know this, it made me feel terrible and you don’t have enough damn money to pay me to go back. ) 

   

Part 2 - http://www.writerscafe.org/link/173072/

Reviews

[Eagle Cruagh]

Terry, I am sure glad you got out of there in one piece.
Another few days and I think it would have been the
beginning of 'world War III.
I just don`t laugh at Cafe' jokes, but yours get me laughing
out loud. It must be that down home sense of humor.
Far as I am concerned, when you tell one of your escapades,
I am right there cheering you on, wiping the spit off my shoes too.
If you pull others in to your story and weave a tapestry around them
as you have me, you are winning storyteller of the year. Bravo !
Again, I speak from limited ability and experience in this field, but
I think you are an exceptionally talented writer and you should pursue
writing with a vengeance. "Many are called, but few are chosen", you
will be chosen . I would bet heavy on that outcome.
Thank you for making my day.-------- (a FAVORITE)

[Juliet]

You know, the Greeks spit at you when they like you, to wish you good luck and such. Maybe you just got ahold of a bunch of Greeks and didn't know it, lol!

I do know what you mean about home. There really is nothing like it. I complain about my little hovel of a place, but then I remember where I live, and I can hear the ocean from my front porch, and the temperature is always between 50 and 70 degrees. Some people would sell their first born to live here.

I do plan on going back to Europe, though. You'll probably see a story about it on here if I do :)

Thank you!

[Michael Anyanwu]

Terry, if you ever do get to changing your mind about visiting Europe again, I'd be more than happy to put you up. London's a pretty cool place to visit and at least you'd be able to have a laugh trying to make sense of some of the quainter English phrases.

Third chapter of your adventures didn't fail to amuse me even though I sympathise with all the crap you had to put up with out there.

[Amy Widmer]

I love ALL these stories. Your discriptions of a society with predjudice against Americans (long haired or otherwise) very well. One thing I've learned in your tales is that, instead of slugging a stranger (like here in the states), Europeans spit. lol

[Blue Bard]

I thought I had reviewed this. I meant to. I think your trilogy is excellent. The spitting and the timing of the trip combined with your state of mind are very well portrayed with good humor and just enough seriousness to give it bite. Good work. Sorry about the mix up on the review. It was late last night I think when I read it.

[Adam Greenfield]

I really want to travel but this (among every time I watch the news) makes me not want to travel so much anymore. Great story overall.

[Siobhan MacIntyre]

I am DEFINITELY not leaving the US! Spitting on people...imagine that! Being the kind of person I am, I might just smack someone for that! I'm impressed you stifled the urge and took it in stride.

I had some luggage that caught up with me in Vegas my last day of my business conference; apparently it went to Vegas from Washington State via Tennessee....wish I could have taken that route! I ended up with someone's lingerie stuffed into my garment bag with my business suits. Was very flattering, because the lingerie was two sizes smaller than what I wear...but it was baby pink, and with my reddish hair it would have looked atrocious. Looked very nice in the garbage can though. I never did ask the airlines how it got into my bag...

Another wonderful glimpse into the life experiences of Terry. I enjoyed this immensely. ;-)

[Kevin Connolly]

Yet another comedy masterclass, Terry. I was going to say I wet myself laughing, but I was thinking of the character in the story...
My favorite parts:

I made a mess plus wet my pants and shoes to boot. Well at least it washed some of that guy�s spit off them anyhow.
He spat at my shoes again, after I just had washed the damn things, sort of.
The movie �Midnight Express� came to my mind. I liked the movie, but sure didn�t want to live it. When the train finally started to move I was relieved to say the least, wet pants and all.
At the airport the baggage handlers were on strike, seems all they do over here is strike and spit. Some probably can do both at the same time, now that�s a feat in itself.
There were enough cops around in that country to spit on me and search me 7 times, but for this old woman there was no one. Next thing I knew this old man in his 70�s came out of nowhere and beat the fool out of that man with his cane. He ran off as best he could on his one good leg. I was right proud of that old French guy.
When I was getting off the plane the stewardess hugged me and whispered in my ear, �It was good for me, was it good for you?� I just laughed and said goodbye.
Of course my girlfriend saw all of this... I explained it as best as I could, I was just glad she didn�t spit on me. I was getting a little gun-shy about that.
If you ever decide to go to Europe and if you�re a male, remember to take a hanky. And for God�s sakes get a haircut before you go.

Great stuff, all three parts. Get it published!

[Conspiration Libre D'es..]

Great ending to a very enjoyable story. I suppose the constant spitting is better than getting mugged but certainly pretty despicable. And, as Wulfstan says 'As a European I should surely apologise. nah..I won't. I'm British etc.' I'm afraid the combination of long hair and being American is just asking for trouble. Look at it this way - if this had'nt happened there would have been no epic tale to tell!

[Otto L.n. Pipgras]

yes, this was a great story indeed...what a journey...and ugly one wet from all the spitting...great humor in the face of adversity....there's no place like home, Toto