Is this the most perfect love story
The time was June
1975, and I was hitchhiking around Switzerland and France the summer before
grad school in Chicago. I had ended up in Neuchâtel that day by chance; the
ride I caught was going there. The youth hostel was somewhere up the hill, but
I was hot and thirsty, so I plopped down on the terrace of Café Pam-Pam. Finally I spoke to
her, asking as best I could in French if she’d like to play, pointing at the
chessboard. She responded in French, “Pardon?” I tried to carefully
repeat my question. She responded in English, “Perhaps we should speak
English.”
Maïf, short for
Marie-France, was 19 and had lived in Neuchâtel all her life. She was at the
cafe, her regular after-school hangout, for a coffee, cigarette and game of
pinball. She’d just finished a day of Baccalaureate exams to graduate from high
school. Over the next two
days, Maïf showed me her town. We walked along cobblestone streets up to the
12th-Century castle where she’d played as a young girl with her German
shepherd, Kathy. We sprawled on the grass by the lake, the white Alps in the
distance. We stayed out until dawn at a low-key club where she gave me a coin
for the jukebox and asked me to punch in G5 for her favourite song by George
Benson. We were joined for a while by a suave older guy she knew. He clearly
disliked that she was with me.
During those two days
together, we never even kissed. I was smitten, but she had a boyfriend in
Canada, and would soon be joining him at university to study English. I was too
shy to tell her how I felt. So I left. I stuck out
my thumb again and caught rides to… somewhere that I’ve completely forgotten.
Then, after a few days, I gave in and went back to Neuchâtel, back to Café
Pam-Pam. Before long, here came Maïf on her little black scooter, putt-putting
up the hill. After a coffee, she took me to her house around the corner, where
her grandmother made us an omelette for lunch. I’d never had an omelette for
lunch. We ate in the kitchen at a table that’s still there.
I stayed one more
night in Neuchâtel. I still had more exploring to do before flying back to the
US, and it was too painful to stay longer. We said goodbye in front of her
house, and there we finally kissed, but just on each cheek as Europeans do with
friends. As I turned and walked away, Maïf let out a low groaning sound. Any
idiot would have turned around and gone back to her forever.
By September, I was living in Chicago,
going to grad school, and Maïf was in Ontario at university. We wrote each
other once. Her boyfriend had gotten otherwise involved. I called her and she
said maybe she could come to Chicago soon. But when I called again a couple of
weeks later, she told me she’d met someone. We lost contact. For 32 years...
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