I'm in a small, faultlessly executed coffee shop by the canal in the 19th arrondissement. I am sitting on a plastic chair, my legs crossed at the ankles, and I am wearing my uniform: green plaid shirt over off-white T-shirt, slim navy pants bulging at the pockets, pointed dress shoes with gutted interiors. My black hooded rain jacket, which houses my notebooks and surplus tissues in Velcro-enclosed pockets, is draped over the back of the chair. A woman with a pierced nose, faded white sneakers and an Apple laptop shares my table.
I am standing by the door, examining the menu and preparing my French. I finally settle on an Americano and begin my internal mantra: un Americano s'il vous plaît. I enter and approach the counter. Un Americano s'il vous plaît. The owner, an initially intimidating gentleman with an upside-down haircut (or bald with a beard, if you prefer), is stacking glasses on a high wooden shelf. Un Americano s'il vous plaît. He turns and asks me for my order, or so I presume. It is time.
"Un espresso por favor," I say. Yep, that's what came out.
"¿Lo tienes aquí o para ir?" he asks.
I freeze, trying to remember the only phrase I had perfected, the phrase I was gaily singing to myself while wandering the streets this very morning.
"Je ne..." I begin, all but swallowing my tongue. "Je ne... parle... pas français."
"I know," he says, switching to English. "You said 'por favor', that's why I answered in Spanish."
Later he asks me to move tables in needlessly voluminous French, as I have clearly demonstrated my mastery of the language. Salaud.
It is after midnight and the cat at the apartment has become a black and white cushion. I remember I am low on toothpaste.