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He's the one who commented about how Americans show gratitude when I threw my arms around him. But this French way of showing gratitude? I don't know, it's awfully confusing.
"Table twenty-three," Camille says to me. "They've been trying to flag you down for the last two minutes."
"Sorry, Camille," I rush over. I bring them a clean fork, and then table twelve complains about the texture of the pasta.
"I'll bring out the chef right away," I say to them, and head towards the kitchen.
"Natalie, hoo hoo! Natalie!"
My brain is running in so many directions between forks and ice water and pasta, oh my, that I could almost swear I hear my mother's voice calling out to me across the restaurant. Is it a sign that I'm home sick?
"Natalie! Hello, hello!"
Wait a second. Even if I was homesick, I doubt I'd be hearing my mother's voice twice in a row.
"Gosh, isn't this place quaint?" Dad's voice pipes in, and I wish the floor would open up and suck me whole. I am having a hallucination. I could swear I see Mom wearing a gingham dress to rival the world's largest picnic blanket, and Dad in a silk shirt with a tiger on the front. There's no way that French people are accidentally dressed in my parents’ clothing. The only other option is that I’m experiencing a full-on mental break.
I grab at the table beside me and tell Camille,"I don't think I'm well."
"Is that because of those very loud Americans who are shouting your name over there?"
"You see them, too?"
"Natalie, those people are so obviously your parents that even a rock could tell you sprang from their loins."
"Uh, we don't say that in English."
"We don't say it in French either. But go and greet your parents, for goodness sake."
Without even realizing it, I'm across the restaurant and throwing myself into their arms. It's very not French, but at this particular moment, I don't care one bit. They smell like home. Seems the scent of manure is pervasive.
"What on earth are you doing here?" I finally manage to get out.
"What are we doing here?" Mom says. "What are you doing here? "
"Uh, did I drop into the twilight zone? Imovedto France."
"Yes, but you were supposed to meet us at the apartment. That's what we discussed."
"Yeah, on June fifth!"
Mom and Dad exchange one of their famous looks.
"No, dear," Dad says. "On May sixth."
"What?" I pull out my phone and start scrambling through the text messages. "But I remember it perfectly. Five-six is what you wrote in the text message."
"Precisely. May sixth." Mom shakes her head.
"Oh no," I slap my head a little too hard—that's going to leave a mark. "In France, they do the dates the other way around. Day first, and then month. At the restaurant I'm constantly taking reservations and, gosh, I forgot how to read the date."
"Well, here we are!" Mom says, twirling. "Do you like my new dress? The shade of red perfectly matched this season’s beefsteak tomatoes. I got it just for the occasion."
"You'd fit in perfectly at a French restaurant." I don't tell her the part where she'd fit in as part of the linen more than the guests.
"We went to the apartment," Dad says. "Fortunately, your friends led us this way, and what a beautiful walk to get here. Wasn't that stunning, Mary-Lou?"
"Absolutely divine. Notre Dame, Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower. Though, golly, my feet are aching.”
