He is stocky and blond with wide shoulders and an underbite. He is wearing dark denim jeans, high-top sneakers, and a tight, white t-shirt with blue stars running down the left side of his torso and red stripes down the right. Based on his ensemble and his frequent head-nods, I can tell he’s not from around here. “A European,” I say to myself. It’s easy to make this assumption because the Blue Moon Saloon also serves as a guesthouse. Foreign transients passing through Lafayette spend the night here, and the locals come for the live music and the multi-cultural stimulation. I’m here because I was dragged by my friend, Sonny, who says she wants to fuck the trumpet player because “his beard gives [her] a wide-on,” which I think is gross, but not because I'm a misogynist, which I'm not.
I approach him because if I waited my whole life for someone to approach me, I’d still be a virgin. He’s by himself, so I don’t have to fight for his attention. I say “Hey,” and he says “Ello.” I ask him what’s up, and he says, “I am hanging out with the band.” Again, he is alone and the band is still performing. I ask him where he’s from. “France,” he says. “Paris?” I ask. “Not Paris,” he says. “In the west more.” “Like Brest or Nantes?” I ask. “No,” he says. “Erm. No. Not those places.” Normally, right here is where I’d say "Nice meeting you," and run off, but I like his accent and I would like to see what he looks like without a shirt.
I ask him a few more questions and find out that he's my age, he's an occupational therapist, and he’s been traveling the world for ten months. He tells me India is colorful but also a lot of browns. He says Bali is like paradise, but while he was there, an ATM ate his credit card, so it was “very difficult to manage.” His favorite place is Australia, where he lived for six months and delivered pizzas on a working visa. He says all the people are in good shape and there are free outdoor grills for public use everywhere. From Brisbane, he flew to Maui and then to Los Angeles. He rented a car in Flagstaff and purchased a phone in Tucson. Then, he skipped Austin and stayed a few nights in Houston before traveling to New Orleans. Now, he is spending the night in Lafayette because he wants to try Cajun food and to see a real swamp before heading to Chicago. And even though I rephrase the question several times, I can’t get an answer for how he’s funding the expedition.
I ask him a few more questions and find out that he's my age, he's an occupational therapist, and he’s been traveling the world for ten months. He tells me India is colorful but also a lot of browns. He says Bali is like paradise, but while he was there, an ATM ate his credit card, so it was “very difficult to manage.” His favorite place is Australia, where he lived for six months and delivered pizzas on a working visa. He says all the people are in good shape and there are free outdoor grills for public use everywhere. From Brisbane, he flew to Maui and then to Los Angeles. He rented a car in Flagstaff and purchased a phone in Tucson. Then, he skipped Austin and stayed a few nights in Houston before traveling to New Orleans. Now, he is spending the night in Lafayette because he wants to try Cajun food and to see a real swamp before heading to Chicago. And even though I rephrase the question several times, I can’t get an answer for how he’s funding the expedition.
A profound language gap separates us, but hand gestures and repeating the same words over and over again help us get the messages across. I find him funny in the way everyone finds foreigners funny. He makes off-color, offensive comments without understanding the cultural implications of them. I’m laughing my ass off, and I want to share this experience with my friends later, so I begin recording the conversation with his consent. He tells me he stopped for lunch in Morgan City, a small town on Highway 90 halfway between New Orleans and Lafayette. He says, “Morgan City is very offshore with its population. And many Afro-Americans.”
“Oh,” I say. “As many as in New Orleans?”
“Yes. Many,” he says. “I’ve heard there are lots of Afro-Americans here because of chicken fast food.”
“That is definitely a racist thing to say," I tell him.
“No, no,” he says. “Some people tell me that they like chicken because it’s from where they’re from. It was in Africa. They used to eat that and then they just brought it here.”
“Yes. Many,” he says. “I’ve heard there are lots of Afro-Americans here because of chicken fast food.”
“That is definitely a racist thing to say," I tell him.
“No, no,” he says. “Some people tell me that they like chicken because it’s from where they’re from. It was in Africa. They used to eat that and then they just brought it here.”
“I guess,” I say. "I'm not sure."
He says, “They are also — all of them — relations of some guy who was a slave one day and they stayed here, yes?”
“I never thought of it that way,” I say.
“Yes. And before you and the Afro-American people came, it was just some Native Americans here in Louisiana,” he tells me. “It’s weird because. Erm. I was hearing about the Native Americans, but people only care about the Cajuns here and no one cares about the Native American history.”
“They're doing alright," I say. "They own big casinos now."
He looks at me for a minute, then he says, “That is definitely a racist thing to say.”
If this were a romantic comedy, then we would be right on-script. Our European opposite American dialogue feels like it's been run-through by a million other people before us. We alternate buying rounds of beer, and after several rotations, I'm feeling brave enough to ask him something. "Do you want to see a Louisiana swamp?" I ask. "Like right now?" He looks suspiciously at me, but then he says, "Okay, then. I can go." We get in my car and I drive a few blocks to the University of Louisiana. We park near the Student Union and I walk with him to Cypress Lake, a living swamp in the middle of campus. Once we're there, I launch into an oral presentation of Cypress Lake that I perfected over hundreds of campus tours as an Enrollment Services Tour Guide for the University. "Cypress Lake began as a prehistoric buffalo wallow. Then, the University sprung up around it in the early 1900s and then became a pigpen, then a space for open-air theatre productions, then it was flooded during WWII as a reservoir to fight potential bomb fires. Today, it's home to alligators and other indigenous swamp life," I finish and smile, showing all my teeth. He stares me. Crickets. And then he says, “This is not real swamp. People made it to fight war. I will see real swamp tomorrow.”
We drive back to Blue Moon Saloon in mostly silence because I can’t make it feel un-weird. We come to a stop and I ask him if he’d like to spend the night at my place so that he doesn’t have to go back to his crappy motel on the Northside. He opens the door and says, “Not tonight. I am good.” Then he closes the door, gets into his car, and drives away. I hang out for a while and smoke a cigarette. I haven’t smoked all night because I thought smoking might gross him out, even though he’s French, which was pretty considerate of me. The least he could’ve done was sex.
In the morning, I drive to Baton Rouge for the LSU game. There, I check Grindr and see he is less than a mile away from me. I guess he woke up and heard Baton Rouge calling, too. I wonder if he saw a real swamp this morning. And if he’s alone right now — wandering around the tailgating chaos and looking for something new and exciting before moving on the next place, and then the next.
That, I understand.
That, I understand.
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