I was finally back in Chicago, home sweet home. I had left from my second interview this week at the UChicago hospital, and I was walking around downtown to celebrate. I walked into a pizza place for some deep dish, but the restaurant was crowded, so once I got my pizza I asked to sit down at the one empty chair by an older woman with a feathered hat.
"Bonjour, parlez-vouz francais?"
"Huh?"
"Sorry, hello. Your dress.. I thought you looked a bit French."
"Oh, no, sorry." I touched my beret self-consciously. I knew I should have worn something more nurse-y to my interview. "Um... Je mapple Cee." I had only taken a year of French in high school. I tried my best.
The woman began to chuckle, which grew into a full throated laugh for about ten seconds, until she composed herself. She sniffed, and her expression grew neutral again. By this point I was laughing too.
"Hello, Cee. My name is Marge." She reminded me of the woman I had met when I first started this road trip. The French maybe-Communist one. I asked her about politics, and she answered with a similar reserve.
"I met this French woman a few years back, the first time I was driving through the United States. Pretty close to here actually."
"Funny, my niece was here a few years ago..." she said thoughtfully. She finished her pizza and left the restaurant. I walked outside, glad to be home.
No comments:
Post a Comment