“Meet us at the west of the island,” he texted me, in French. “Wait, what?” I replied. “You want me to meet you where?
Can you specify some type of landmark for the foreigner just, you know, to ensure she doesn’t accidentally walk off the west side of the island into the Seine?”
“The west side of the Île de la Cité! Picnic-style!” he responded in French.
Merci, mon ami. That’s so much better.
Pierre, my bona fide French friend with only one speaking speed—too fast—invited my friend Adriana and me to meet him by the Seine to drink— picnic-style—in the company of him, his friends, and many Parisians. Once everyone met up, we relocated to the bank nearest to the Notre Dame on the far west edge of the island. I thought his vague description was because of his lack of empathy to my general cluelessness, but no. Pierre really meant “the west of the island.” Had we walked any further west, we would have gone for a dip in the river, contracted some type of disease and then been captured by the rat or fish mutants I’m convinced live under the depths of those murky waters.
That little park was crowded. Young Parisians having small picnics of mostly alcohol, sitting on the ground, talking and laughing. It was like one big party of strangers, not two feet from the river.
We hadn’t spent much time there when my roommate texted me to meet her at Mount Saint- Michel. I had double-booked myself. Because most of my time was spent deciphering every other sentence while the group gabbed away with gaiety in French, I wasn’t too upset I had other plans. We said our goodbyes, made promises to see one another again and skipped off into the night.
Adriana and I didn’t get very far before a man advanced us with his, “Ay, mademoiselle!” Adriana slid off to the left, while I ducked his approach to the right. As I stepped past him, the man grabbed a chunk of my ass. It wasn’t a tap or a cup. He took a big juicy handful of what my mama gave me.
So I did what anyone would do: I spun around—with my pleated gold skirt swaying in the wind— and punched him in the face. It was a natural reaction.
His natural reaction? Punch me right back.
I hit the ground hard. Adriana screams out, “No, no” sternly, as if she was lecturing a toddler who had drawn on the walls with crayons.
His reaction? To hit her head with a water bottle.
I jumped back on my feet, my left elbow bleeding from catching most of my fall and begin screaming at him. He’s yelling back, along with his friends yelling at both of us. People have stood up in the park to watch this Asian-American girl screaming crude words in English at a drunken French man twice her size. I’m debating whether or not to knee him in the groin. Adriana is yelling something. I’m about to kick his crotch and then, it all stops. I decide it isn’t worth getting stabbed or shot, so I turn around and walk away. Adriana follows. As we walk up the steps, he screams something after us.
I turn around and yell a phrase that should never leave a lady’s lips, strut up the stairs and out of sight.
To some, the Île de la Cité may be a rich and beautiful island rich with history and meaning.
To me, it will always be the place where some guy sexually harassed me and then punched me in the face.
