Page 55 - Contrast2014

I spent my last night in Dijon at a restaurant on the
rue Berbisey, a long street, known for its nightlife, that
begins in the nexus of boulevards behind my home stay.
Emile picked the place: Le Pharaon, a tiny Egyptian/
Lebanese restaurant wedged in next to Shooters, a seedy
"American" bar, reminding me all too clearly of what I
would return to the following day. We arrived at eight;
kisses were given all around: first cheek, other cheek,
bonsoir, ce va?, and then we talked and ate and laughed
and in the waning light. When Emile asked if anyone
wanted to share another pichet of rose with him, I replied
with a quick "oui. JJ Another pitcher meant another half
hour of languorous sipping and conversation -a half hour
more before saying goodbye to the people that had become
so dear to me, before the solitary walk back to the rue
Vauban to finish packing and turn in, to get at least a
little sleep before my 6: 15 train to Charles de Gaulle
airport in Paris.

Eventually, though, it was time for the bill to be paid.
Isabelle, my Brazilian friend, seemed to be getting
impatient; I thought it was because she wanted to go
home and spend time with Jordan, her French boyfriend.
"Alors, Byron Bay?" she finally blurted out, looking
around the table to gauge reactions. Byron Bay was an
Australian-themed club down the street, usually
overcrowded but popular for its €2 beer. I smiled, but
hesitated.

"I don't know, my train leaves early in the morning."

"Sarah, you cannot leave Dijon without having danced
with me." This was Chantal, another professor I had
grown close to in the month of August. Everyone else
watched me, expectant.

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