The Pahl Paw Patch: Café Olé

The apartment building door burst open and Nate heaved the mountain bike before him. He hopped on it, slapped his feet into the pedal straps, and down the cobblestone streets he rode, headed for his favorite coffeehouse; although he´d only lived in Europe a month, Nate had grown quite attached to Maurice´s, a small cafe on Rue Cler, in Paris´ 7th arrondissement.

Standing high on pedals, shoulder bag draped around his torso, spring sunshine bounding from shop windows to his face and back, Nate cruised past the open markets, sniffing the abundant aromas. Man, I love Paris! he thought. This neighborhood, this new life…Cartagena had been fun, no doubt, but Paris...every day here felt like a day spent in Wonderland.

Nate, 29, stood a slender five eleven. Shoulder length sandy-blonde hair danced on the manufactured breeze as he strode his bike down the avenue. Along with faded jeans and combat boots, he wore a simple waist-length, black leather jacket over white long-sleeve t-shirt.

Once upon a time, Nate worked as a digital animator. But burnout hit him hard. He made good money, sure. But all day on a computer just wasn´t his style. He needed to be out, be free. And, for whatever reason, animation didn´t turn out to be the career college promised it would be.

After six years in the business, he called it quits and left the ´States to explore the world. Since he knew his money wouldn´t last forever—even while he banked and invested in relative secrecy to the IRS thanks to a second passport from Ireland, a gift from mom´s lineage—he took a job teaching English as a Second Language. His first ESL assignment landed him in Jakarta, Indonesia for six months. A second took him to Yokohama, Japan for another six months. His third assignment, this time with the adjacent Teaching English as a Foreign Language program, delivered him to ambient Cartagena, Colombia, for a full year. Nate loved the experience; nowhere did he see—on the actual streets—Tom Clancy´s vision of Colombia. Instead, he soaked in the bountiful history, the antique architecture, the rich cuisine, and the sexy beach life. Cartagena inspired him like nowhere he´d yet been.

Nate could never put a finger on it, but something made him antsy about living in America—something subconscious. Ever since his junior year in college, he felt the need to run abroad. And now he´d admit it: while something seemed to haunt him back home, he felt safe out here, out here in the "real world," on his own.

Along the ESL and TEFL journey, Nate dusted off his camera and began shooting photos once again; photography had been, perhaps, his favorite subject while attending the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. But Nate never thought he could earn a viable living from it, and when he graduated, like most college graduates, money seemed to be the goal.

Then, while in Yokohama on this second ESL assignment, a friend from Chicago, Dave, emailed him regarding the hobby; Dave found his photos on Flickr and had been quite impressed with them. Subsequently, Dave recommended the burgeoning online micro-stock photography industry. Nate did a little research, found seven micro-stock Web sites he liked, set up a PayPal account, and never looked back.

Thus, by the time he´d finished the Cartagena TEFL assignment, Nate had amassed a portfolio that included more than 4000 high quality images, many of which sold each month on the seven micro-stock photography Web sites, earning him both steady commissions and healthy residual income. He could now live anywhere he chose.

When his third assignment wrapped, Nate longed to find a fourth in Paris; he´d always wanted to see the City of Light—to experience it, as a resident experiences it. Yet, no ESL or TEFL assignment could land him there, at least not any time in the next 100 years. Every ESL and TEFL professional on the planet had Paris atop his/her wish list. Thus, waiting lists spanned decades.

Instead, Nate packed his belongings, said farewell to his Colombian friends, and headed to Paris on his camera´s back.

Four blocks from his flat, Nate came to a halt, hopped off the bike, and leaned it against a lamppost. He grabbed the padlock, slid the key in, and popped it open. Nate wrapped the chain around both front tire and forks. He ran the padlock stem back through a couple chain links then slapped it shut. Nate turned and made his way to the café.

As he stepped inside the door, conversation saturated him. As usual, Maurice´s bustled. If he didn´t know better, he might think Maurice´s seemed more like nightclub than coffeehouse. But he loved its energy and quirkiness.

Nate stood in the doorway for a long moment and surveyed the landscape, searching for a place to park it. A long sweep to his right…then a long sweep to his left…

There he was again, sitting at a barstool across the room, the same guy he´d seen five other times since he arrived in Paris—three times at this café, once at a gallery showing, and once while jogging along the Seine. This time, the guy sat with an elbow on the coffee bar, nursing a café ole. And again, the guy smiled and waved.

I´ve seen him somewhere before, Nate thought. Somewhere stateside? Nate picked through his cognitive filing cabinet, as he stared at the guy. Did he know him in college? Perhaps Little League? Did he work with him on a project while in LA? Did the guy date his sister?

Nate scanned the man from head to toe, then chuckled. Six feet and rail thin, coiffed highlighted hair, pale skin, bright red lips, brushed eyelashes, flesh-toned eyewear, silk scarf with wool jacket buttoned high, designer pants and designer boots...Definitely a "no" to the last one, he thought. If this guy isn´t gay, nobody is.

Nate forced a smile and offered a feeble, uncomfortable wave.

The man motioned for him to approach.

What? Nate thought.

Another wave to come closer.

Nate took a deep breath then exhaled. OK, he thought. Nate made his way toward the coffee bar.

Upon Nate´s approach, the man bowed his chin, grinned, and extended his hand. "Hi…I´m Jonathan."

"Oh…hey…" Nate said while he shifted his shoulder bag. "You´re American." Nate shook Jonathan´s hand. "Nice to meet ya."

Jonathan nodded. "You too."

Nate flagged down the barista and pointed toward Jonathan´s drink. The barista acknowledged him and reached beneath the counter for a cup.

"So, what brings you to Paris?" Jonathan asked.

"Uh…I´ve just always wanted to spend time in Paris. Been here a month, and I love it. I can´t run out of things to shoot."

"Shoot?"

"Photography."

"Oh, you´re a photographer now, huh? Back when we first met, you were going to set the world on fire as a digital animator. Going to build the next Pixar, all by little ol´ yourself."

"Yeah, well…" Nate studied Jonathan for a long moment. "Things change." Nate took his café ole from the barista and handed her a five euro note. "Yours."

The barista offered a nod. "Merci."

Nate glanced at Jonathan then around the coffeehouse, as he sipped from his cup. "So…what brings you to Paris."

Jonathan sat erect, proper, with legs crossed and knees, hands folded in lap. "I followed a British architect here."

Nate nodded. "Good reason. What´s her name?

Jonathan grinned while he stared at Nate a long moment. "His name is Paul."

"Ohhh…sorry." Nate scanned the bustling café and sipped from his coffee cup.

Jonathan, head again bowed, giggled. "You know, we´ve already met, you and me—a few years ago."

Nate looked to Jonathan, trying to place the guy. "Really?"

Jonathan giggled again; he didn´t take his eyes off Nate. "You don´t remember me, do you?

Nate stared at him, not sure how to respond. The truth is, he didn´t remember Jonathan. The guy looked somewhat familiar, but Nate didn´t necessarily remember him.

Jonathan shifted in his barstool and forced a smile. "You don´t." He looked to the floor. "I guess I´m not all that memorable."

Nate stood stoic. "I didn´t say that."

"No…" Jonathan looked to Nate, voice passive. "But actions speak louder than words, right?

"Enlighten me."

"OK…" Jonathan sat erect in his chair, legs crossed and knees, hands folded in lap. He took a deep breath and tapped his thigh with an open palm as he started. "SAIC, eight years ago."

Nate squinted. "You went to school at SAIC?"

"Not exactly." Jonathan again looked to the floor. He flexed his foot up and down, several times, as his eyes followed. "I was visiting a ´friend.´"

Nate nodded. "OK…and?"

"And he and I had a terrible argument. I ended up at Rudy´s Saloon alone, sitting on a bar stool." Jonathan giggled. "One not so different than this one."

"OK…and?"

"And you´d just failed a midterm. At least that´s what you told me."

Nate eyed Jonathan.

"You took a seat at the bar, next to me, and we drank and drank and drank."

"Are you sure it was me?"

Jonathan giggled as he nodded with emphasis.

Nate shrugged. "Uh…I…I don´t remember any of that."

"You were pretty sloshed. I had to carry you home."

Nate´s eyes grew wide.

Jonathan giggled. "Poor little drunk boy."

"So you took me home?"

"I did," Jonathan said with an open-palm tap to his thigh.

"And…" Nate cocked his head to one side and squinted. "What happened then?"

Jonathan smirked, as he looked to the floor and blushed. "Well…let me just say: it´s still the most amazing night I´ve ever had."

A boulder rolled over in Nate´s stomach.

"But, unfortunately, I had to catch a bus home at 6:45 AM, and you were still snoring away on your apartment floor."

Nate stood with mouth agape.

"And there hasn´t been a day since then I haven´t thought about you, or where you might be and what you might be doing."

Nate gagged a dry heave then turned and darted toward the door.

"Wait!" Jonathan cried out.

Copyright © 2010 Nelson Pahl