Before I continue with "How I met French Husband at the I Beam,' let me tell you how French Husband's journey began….
Skylark was such a pretty name for the rusty old car that Yann bought in Chicago for $300. His childhood friend, a Franco-American who had spent his summer holidays playing on the beaches of Brittany, reassured him, "Snow causes rust. All our cars here in Chicago are more or less rusty. This car has a little more rust that's all."
The drive from Chicago to California was long, stretched by exploring uncharted back roads, and skirting do not trespass Indian Reservations along the way. But those time diversions were nothing compared to the freak snow storm that turned the highway into a parking lot.
Trapped on the road in sub-freezing weather for hours with no end in sight, the stranded reached out to one another. A truck driver from Florida passed out boxes of raisins he was taking to California. Another truck driver's wheel exploded so Yann went over to help. "We weren't dressed for that type of weather. After we fixed the wheel, a police officer noticed that a young woman and I were shaking uncontrollably. I was frozen! He told us to go warm up in the police car. We jumped into the back seat where we warmed up quite quickly you might say." Yes, you might say Yann found comfort with the other stranded traveler, who kept him toasty by singing Voulez vous a coucher avec moi ce soir?
Not long after we met Yann teasingly asked me, "Why do tee Ah-mer-ee-can gurls sing to me, "Voulez Vous a Coucher avec Moi Ce Soir?"
Puzzled I looked at him like as if it was a trick question or something, "How am I suppose to know? I only speak English, and whatever they are singing to you isn't English?"
Yann did not understand a word I said. So I shrugged, lifted up my hands, and shook my head. I remember a funny grin coming over his face. His joke was the first of many that would be lost in translation on me.
Yann continued his journey to his dream-land: Santa Monica and the setting sun on the Pacific. It was late in the evening when he arrived so he slept in a parking lot in the backseat of his Skylark. In the middle of the night a group of "strange" guys tapped on his window. "I barely opened my eyes, but went back to sleep." Later, Yann found out that he had spent his first night in East Los Angeles, "I guess I looked homeless that is why I was not beaten to a pulp."
….to be continued.
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Note: Thanks Cousin Francabolla for your guidance, and to you, readers of Tongue in Cheek for encouraging me to tell my tale. I promise old photos will follow in the days ahead.
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