Waiting

Torrential rain, thunder, lightning suddenly descended on us as we drove back cross town in heavy evening traffic. Streams of water pouring down the windshield. A cloud must have broken, someone said. Left behind, she stood alone in a crowd of people, a crowd confused, uncertain if and when flights would take off. There was no one present to answer questions, to assure the stranded travelers. Chaos. Lasting an hour.

It hadn't started very encouraging, anyway. We had arrived early expecting to find the old terminal, where a flight took off once every half hour, deserted. Instead, the line snaked back and forth along the long room three and a half times before reaching a tall young man with a punk haircut guarding the gate and directing travelers to open windows, first three windows, then two, one, then four. By waiting she wouldn't make it to the gate in time, but was told at the information desk to join the queue anyway, and when her flight's check in would be closing, an announcement over the loudspeaker was to tell her to move to the head of the line. Why even wait in line? I asked the young punk rhetorically if the old regime was still running the joint. Two older men laughed. A few frustrating minutes later, the punk was called off somewhere, and I pushed her under the rope toward an open window. She was on her way.

I got off the streetcar at the stock exchange stop, near the museums and the monument of Charles de Gaulle. I walked past the stores Emporio Armani, Marc Cain, Escada, then ING Bank opposite a round Church in the center of the square where a priest was heard singing, as I walked by the fence of the Institute of the Deaf (established in 1817), finally passing The Olive Garden restaurant before turning east by the Sheraton Hotel towards the river. There was a milk bar at this square once, and a dive called the Rocking Horse where local homosexuals gathered, what has happened to them?

His directions were good. "Do you know where the Buffo Theater is?" "No!" , "The Army Museum?","No", "The Sheraton?" "Yes." "The park lies past the Sheraton and the old YMCA building behind it. The concert starts at 7, be there before 7 and we'll chat."

Nearing the park, I passed the elegant villa of the Embassy of Kuwait. The stage was situated outdoors under an open tent, and in front of it several smaller square tents with rows of rattan chairs underneath them. A tree or two blocked some views. On the small hill behind the stage, a young couple rode mountain bikes. In the sound booth three long haired guys dressed in black practiced on accoustic guitars. A group of a dozen older people took the center front row seats. It was early, just after six. He wasn't there. Nearby, in crowded open air caffes, groups of people were sitting at tables, instrument cases beside them. I paced around. Two pairs of tourists approached me, one of the men asking, "Pardon me, are you from this city?" "No, rather not," I answered awkwardly after a moment of hesitation.

At ten to seven, the musicians, dressed like California slobs, started coming one by one toward a closed tent on the side of the stage. Is this their stage getup, I thought? Times are surely changing. He showed up exactly at seven, shook hands with other organizers and the stage hands before coming to greet me. We embraced. "How is living" he asked, answering himself with another question,"Living?"

He can't stay, Michael is driving him to a birthday party. Oh, and Michael was looking forward to meeting her and talking American. Sorry, she had to leave early, Sorbonne's waiting. He and Michael have just returned from a country wedding, where moonshine was served. The country folk still make it! I could smell it on his breath, and he confessed he had to make sure to stay clear of his boss' nose. The moonshine recipe, he had learned, was based on an important historical date - 1410: 1 part yeast, 4 parts sugar, 10 parts water.

Somehow, the orchestra managed to start the concert without much delay, just a few minutes after 7. They were now wearing black suits, white shirts, 16 men and women, all strings, an orchestra without a conductor, originating, he told me, from my mother's home town over the present border.

We briefly got up and walked back to say 'hello' to Michael, and another older fellow, whom I might have known, he said, from the old days. My brother works for Sun in San Jose, the older fellow told me. Back to our seats and he soon said goodbye, wishing me a jolly good time. So far, they're hitting flat notes, I replied. So long until tomorrow to watch a gypsy ensemble. Be here at six!

He and Michael took off, and the orchestra quickly got up to speed after the first shaky piece, playing Astor Piazzola, Strauss, Offenbach, even slumming once into pop modernity with an original arrangement of Yesterday, which the audience, almost all seniors, might have been to old to dig. But who knows, people tend to age early here. I had planned to split soon, and stayed to the end. Jolly good time.

It started raining as I walked back to the streetcar stop on the Avenue. On top of a restored seven story art deco building, where the ground floor Poetry Bistro tempted my thirst, the crowned neon sign of Rolex came on.