Fabrice

The Summer I was nineteen was one of those toes on warm sand, nothing-to-worry-about-except-my-hair times. Living in the moment against a Bon Jovi soundtrack, all the while, tooling around town with my friend J in her daddy's car.

But we weren't alone. Because that particular Summer, J's family decided to host a French exchange student, Fabrice. Before he arrived, J and I harbored daydreams that he would be what we needed him to be: sexy, brooding, experienced. Once he came, however, we realized that this boy--this sixteen year old who wanted nothing more than to visit Niagara Falls and wore the daily uniform of a purple velour jogging suit--had the power to destroy all of our unfounded fantasies. So we did what we did best: we disregarded him.

Two days before Fabrice was scheduled to fly home, after he had spent an entire Summer, sitting in a booth at the local donut shop, listening to J and I talk about fraternity boys and concerts, Fabrice was offered his Golden Ticket. J's mother decided that she (and J and I) needed to fulfill Fabrice's one and only dream: the trip to Niagara Falls. So that day, an hour after the decision was arrived at, we embarked in a whirlwind of mercis.

Picture the dynamics, if you will. There were three of us in the first car: J, me, and Fabrice. Of course, we ignored him, because that was what we did. My mother and J's mother were in another car behind us. Throughout the entire two hour trip, J and I puckered our lips at male drivers on Interstate 90, fixed our makeup in the visor and rearview mirrors, and belted out Cher songs at the top of our lungs.

Fabrice, in the backseat, said nothing.

If the trip to the Falls took considerably less time than it was supposed to, the trip around the Falls averaged about thirty minutes. No photo ops. for Fabrice in front of those grand torrents of cascading water, no fine mist settling on his side-swept hair. No yellow, plastic, garbage bag rainslicker or rides with other, similarly clad tourists on a boat. Daylight was fading, the crowds were dissipating, and we needed to get back to PA, fast.

But Fabrice wanted souvenirs, so, while we waited impatiently, he meandered from vendor to vendor, searching for treasures. He fingered silver spoons, their handles shaped like Maple leaves. He inspected sculptures in the form of Eskimos and Narwhal Whales. He shook snow globes, creating small blizzards around the miniature replicas of the CN Tower inside. Finally, his eyes began to dance, and he lifted up the item that so delighted him: a velvet painting depicting the Falls in their bold majesty, embellished with glitter, and golden ropes and tassels.

We screamed with laughter. This was nearly as entertaining as the previous week's trip to Chi-Chi's, when we told the hostess that it was Fabrice's birthday and a crew of bored servers advanced on him, clapping and united in song, thrusting an oversized sombrero onto his head.

Fabrice stared at his feet over our amusement re: his tapestry, but he bought it, anyway. And about ten more. To give to his family as gifts.

Fabrice was the one laughing an hour later, when Canadian/US custom's officials refused to allow us back onto US soil. We had apparently, swept away in the spontaneity of the trip, forgotten all about relevant paperork (y'know: identification and whatnot), including Fabrice's passport.

"Where were you born?" the custom's officer demanded.

"Erie, PA," J said.
"Sydney, Australia," I said, "But my dad is a US citizen."
"Ehhhdd--innn-bohhhhr-ohhhhhh," Fabrice said, in the thickest French accent I had ever heard.

"Pull over," the officer yelled.

We talked our way out of it, but it took about an hour. No good cop/bad cop interrogations. Simply, discreet discussions between a herd of custom's officers, a few hushed phone calls. It was a decade prior to 9/11, so border patrol functioned a bit more loosely. It was also probably very apparent to the custom's folks that we were complete idiots incapable of posing any sort of national threat. What kind of lunatios buy velvet tapestries?

Fifteen year later, I think of Fabrice and I just feel happy.

He is probably a billionaire. He has probably visited exotic places the world over. He has probably bought velvet tapestries from many locales. They probably adorn the walls of his 50 room mansion.

I hope so.

Last I'd heard, J lived in the same town where we grew up. I've been struggling for 15 years to learn two languages. I've only recently started to acquire an art collection.

It seems to me that no matter how you look at it, Fabrice is ahead of the game, velvet tapestries, velour jogging suit, and all.