Giovanna’s eyes and spirit moved with the glorious countryside passing before her. By the time another night blackened her view, she was convinced that French cows gave only cream, those engorged udders they dragged about with them couldn’t contain anything as plain as everyday milk, all French farmers must be princes—dukes at the very least—and Giovanni, who could be fascinating when holding forth on subjects that interested him, could be a rather boring travel companion. Even if he had seen it all before, that was no reason to simply ignore everything. After a while, when her excited questions received only curt replies or snores, she stopped asking them.
Endless days, endless nights. Despite her clothes cushion, the wooden slats seemed to have grown themselves into Giovanna’s backside. Pain radiated up and through her spine, reaching every bone in her exhausted body, but she refused to succumb to it. Any minute she might wake up—find herself back in Cirié—this whole marvelous adventure just another one of her many dreams; so, while this one lasted, she was determined to stay wide awake to revel in it.
“Hurry!” Giovanni lifted their bags down from the overhead rack. “Don’t gawk! We have to change stations.” The screech of iron on iron, the recoil of a stopping train, one last blast of escaping steam and Giovanna Francesca Zanchetta, village girl, was in Paris! And it wasn’t a dream after all!
Weaving, dodging like a prizefighter in the ring, Giovanni made his way through the milling crowds, his wife in hot pursuit.
Once outside, Giovanna just had time to register the startling whiteness of daylight intensifying the blue of workers’ smocks before her waist was clutched and, suitcases dangling from both arms, she was hauled off the sidewalk, plopped onto the small platform of a moving trolley car. Out of breath, making sure her hat hadn’t been lost in the wild maneuver, she clung to the wooden railing as Giovanni squeezed in beside her.
“We made it! Look! Look, over there! A Hispano-Suiza! See? The steering wheel still on the right? But those lines … Magnificent!”
Had he been exclaiming over a beautiful woman, he couldn’t have sounded more adoring. Clutching the railing to keep from falling against him, Giovanna thought that to become so enthused by a motorcar when the tip of what must be the so wondrous Tower of Eiffel could be seen on the horizon was a huge exaggeration, yet she had to admit those immaculate driving coats, white as the elegant tires and especially the ladies’ chiffon tied hats, had been spectacular. Stopping and starting, clanging its bells, the trolley scooted along until Giovanni shouted, “Move! We’re here! Give me the bags—get off!”
Here too, Giovanna was given no time to marvel at vaulted domes of cut glass, tall columns adorned with acanthus leaves edged in gilt, or the steaming black giants arrayed like horses in their stalls, but was hustled into a catacomb room of darkened oak reached through a massive door sporting a small white porcelain plaque that read salle d’attente 3eme classe. Indicating a free space on one of the long benches lining the room, Giovanni told his wife to sit and wait for him, adding as an afterthought that he would return.
Giovanna sat, waiting, wondering where in this rather ominous enclosure a place to relieve oneself might be hidden and, should Giovanni be gone longer than expected, how she would manage to ask directions to it and what did he think one did but wait in a waiting room, when suddenly, utterly astounded, she realized that not only had she been able to read the sign on the door but, from the moment of their arrival, during all the dashing and confusion, she had understood the babble of voices surrounding her, all the while completely unaware that she could. French, of course! Everyone had been speaking French—a language she knew well! She liked the comforting feeling, the new sense of security, that this discovery gave her. I am not a tongue-tied foreigner in a strange land—I can understand them. And they will understand me, Giovanna marveled, quite impressed with herself. Now all she had to do was learn American. As soon as the proper moment presented itself, she would ask Giovanni to teach her.
Rearranging the heavy folds of her long skirt, Giovanna waited, idly observing her fellow travelers. Some seemed as weary as she. She noticed that being the only woman wearing a lady’s hat, she was scrutinized by those whose head coverings were tied beneath their chins. Across from her, a young mother, her wooden clogs protruding from a voluminous, patterned skirt, kept eyeing the tips of Giovanna’s leather shoes, which were visible beneath the fashionable blue serge of her traveling costume. Seeming not to notice, as if quite by chance, adjusting the angle of her body, Giovanna exposed to full view her prized high-button shoes for inspection, enjoying, quite without shame, the hint of raw envy they inspired.
Giovanni returned to find his wife most anxious to leave.
“You have to pay the attendant to get in. Here,” he said, handing her a coin, adding, “and take our soap. You can wash in there.” From the string bag, Giovanna took their precious cake wrapped in its protective sheet of oilskin and, not at all uncertain, turned to leave.
“Go through the door at the far end, then turn left. Be careful—don’t go into the wrong side. Yours will have a sign marked with the letters D-A-M-E-S.”
“Oh, really? I wouldn’t have known that!” snapped Giovanna. Realizing how very tired she must be to have resorted to sarcasm, she hurried away before her husband could reprimand her for it.
Giovanna never forgot the discovery of that inner sanctum marked dames—that awesome palace of tile, its endless gleam of pristine white, the lidless seats that lined a whole wall, each with its own cubicle, giving utmost privacy when its door was secured by a large hook, the tidy bundle of cut-up newsprint that hung by a string so conveniently at arm’s length, the long chain with its porcelain teardrop weight that, when she pulled it out of curiosity, produced such a gush of water, it made her jump up in fear, peer down, watch a mighty swirl as it disappeared into the depth of nowhere. Fascinated at how water seemed to materialize from everything, the small, three-spoked porcelain wheels that, when twisted, produced theirs that then poured into a basin beneath, where she washed her face and hands and, full of excitement, exited the dames.
Careful not to get lost, remembering each turn in reverse, she returned and was greeted by “What took you so long? I was beginning to wonder if you got yourself lost!”