Joyeux Noel

When she gets weary, try a little tenderness. That is, from Otis Redding.

Today I went to the park with the intention of having my spirit filled with some Christmas cheer. Families, lovers, friends, ponds, doves, ducks, labeled flora , topiaries, and so on. When I was looking into a pond, trying to decide whether I was sad or not, a short old man with designer frames came up to me and said something I couldn’t understand. He said it again, then he asked me if I lived near. I said yes. He said, in an apartment? I said yes, wondering why. Then he asked me if I wanted to make love, have some tenderness on a day like this. Frankly appalled, all I could do was say, non non non, and blink.

Then I walked away, wondering how I could look like a prostitute (in a large grey coat, black jeans, unbrushed hair and no makeup at 3:30 in the afternoon on Christmas day). Do women still require chaperones for a stroll in the park? By the way, luckily, this entire thing is really funny to me now. For my own self worth, I remembered what I was taught about prostitution in French class. It was legal until 1946, and in fine print it’s still grouped in with selling your organs so some people interpret it loosely (no pun intended). French prostitutes are accepted, glamourized, liberated, and of course, sexy, especially in film. On the other hand, I tend to think of real, American prostitutes as being coked up, desperate ‘exotic dancers’ in ill-fitting costumes, trying to make it.

From the classic French films we had to watch, there was a slew of prostitutes who helped a 14 year old lose his virginity and ‘become a man’, there was a prostitute regarded as the first feminist character in cinema, there was a rich blond housewife prostitute who did it for the sheer thrill of it. And there’s currently a Jean Paul Gaultlier perfume commercial involving a prostitute and sailor that plays on every commercial break without fail. Even I can admit, French lingerie is extremely sexy- on screen and on your body. But, that’s about the only time I want to look like a French prostitute.

I think the whole French perception of prostitution reeks of machismo more than that degrading Axe commercial where the guy is chocolate and suddenly has hoards of women after him. If you’ve ever inhaled the sweaty morning armpits of undeoderized Europeans on public transit, you’ve smelled it too. And it stinks! Prostitutes, in my opinion do not ‘choose’ to live that lifestyle in order to make money. Some are very literally forced into it. Others think they have no choice but to do this for one unfortunate reason or another-drugs, history of child abuse, poverty, and often all three. And if by chance some prostitutes do get some kinky enjoyment out of this profession, she should just get into the porn industry or apply to live with Hugh Hefner, because it’s safer and better paid.

After that episode of a fucked up cross cultural encounter, I’ve been reading. I’ve been reading The Hunchback of Notre Dame in French, skimming the big words just like I used to when I was a little girl, and sipping pinot noir. The bells have been ringing in interludes from the cathedral around the corner that looks an awful lot like Notre Dame. Quasimodo and the echoing bells reminded me of the true meaning of Christmas. I called home and felt much love, much better. Though, I still haven’t figured out if Esmeralda is a prostitute or not.