Penpal cheater

The penpal cheater never thought she would find the love letters in his email account. He had been writing his father’s friend in Columbia as “a favor.” Well, actually his father’s student; a woman daddy believed to be a better fit for his son than his current South American girlfriend, my friend. The father was playing matchmaker. What we South Americans call, an “alcahuete” (aka one who meddles).

Meantime, in Paris, his girlfriend reads the emails on their bed, in their apartment. She stumbled on them while searching for a document that she had emailed him a month before. In her hand she had a cup of tea that was slowly spilling onto their mattress soiling the sheets with a green tea hue.

Between gasps of air and frantic speed reading, she discovers that her boyfriend — who she had left the states for–was CORRESPONDING with another woman. A woman who, on a page, could communicate her desires and aspirations to him. A woman who thought it was absolutely fine to pursue a man who was already in a committed relationship. He replied to her with admiration, with soft longing, and a veiled innocence of we can write each other but that’s about it. To which she would respond, but I think I love you. And it continued for more pages.

Oh the written word.

Like Shakespeare teaches us, every word holds many truths and meanings. And my friend was smart enough to read between the lines and see her boyfriend with this Columbian woman swimming in sheets of passion — letters of innocence coated in red ink — stories of family reunions speckled with lust and desire.

It’s only been days, days I can count on one hand and she tells me this through a smile. I can’t tell if it’s pain or relinquishing. What seemed as the perfect love, has become a tortured romance in Paris; he betraying her with words. Words, words, words.

Ay penpal cheater. You forget how powerful they are.

I wish you luck.

Hell hath no fury like a South American woman scorned.

And to my friend, you are more beautiful than he’ll ever understand.


Too Many Windows or The Cat Spirit

Have you ever walked naked in your living room? Ever wonder if there was anyone watching you?

Well, I don’t technically LIVE in this hotel, but it will be a “kind-of-home” for the next couple of weeks. I’ve been trying to write a composition in French for a few hours now, but no luck. It’s pretty difficult actually, my grammar in English is kind of sketchy as it is—but I’m trying my best, Reader. I am originally from Peru. Cut me some slack Language gods.

The other day, after I had exasperated myself from writing the France entry, I decided to rest. That evening, I had an ugly nightmare. I picked up a book to read, and then let it fall gently upon my chest and stretched my awkward limbs (like a daddy long leg spider) on the couch. It was misty-warm out, so I left the window open.

As I explained in the last post, I love ambiance noise, especially French ambiance noise. It’s magical to me. I know that in a few weeks, all this will be gone. As always in life: fantasies, fairies, and farts—all ephemeral.   Still, I want to share this story. It is a strange story about cats, naps, windows, and sex…and one more thing. Accidental creeping.   I pride myself in being a creeper (for writing that is), but I am not usually a creeper just to be creepy. However, this was all an accident. Okay, I will just tell it.

It all began because a spirit visited me as I slept on the couch. I will call it the CAT SPIRIT.

The Dream:

A cat had found itself in the hotel room. I came out of the bathroom, and there it was sitting by the window looking inside. I wondered how it got into the room. “It must be a flying cat,” I thought to myself in my dream. So then I went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. It was not good water, so I put it aside. Then I went back to the small living room space, and the cat was now licking it’s paw in the middle of the room. She was making herself at home. I was like, “Non chat! Allez!” or something in my broken French. It just stared at me and kept licking its paw. I walked over to it to pick it up, and as I reached down it — the cat went bezerko! It crawled up my arm in swirls as if it was a snake trying to wrap around me. It reached my head and scratched me everywhere. “Non chat!” I kept saying. I finally grabbed a hold of it and threw it out the window.

: /

I know. It’s a violent dream. Don’t worry! I am aware that it is a horrible thing to throw a cat out the window, but anything is possible in dreams. As I walked over to see the damage, I cringed expecting guts, blood, brain and, well, death, really.  There was nothing on the ground. No cat, no thing. “I’m mad,” I said to myself. I didn’t know what else to say. I was in the hotel and I thought I was awake.


Then a cold breeze pushed it’s way through the window, and I found my legs curled up next to me with my oversized sweater attempting to cover my entire body. I touched my arms frantically to see if the scratches were there, and they were not. “It was a dream,” I thought to myself. I relaxed on the couch again and stretched my toes. In the corner of my eye, however, I see a couple on a balcony.

They are talking with their faces close to one another, the way the French do, and I sighed. How romantic I said. Then the man grabs the woman and pushes her against the balcony. They grope, touch, kiss, push against the bars with their bodies and nuzzle their faces into one another like animals in a petting zoo.

What was I doing, you ask?

I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to watch what they were doing, but I was transfixed — lost, even–between reality and a dream. Where am I? Is this happening? Am I still dreaming? and — Wow, that’s really hot! Etc. etc. etc.

All I have to say is that, here in Paris, my neighbors are not shy. There are way too many windows in this city. You can see into them, and they can see into yours. I wonder if there was someone watching me frozen in shock from all the passionate man-handling in the top floor of the apartment building across the way. Maybe the Cat Spirit was trying to warn me about the lack of passion in my life. Why did I have to nap so late? Why did I have the perfect view of this couple? Why couldn’t I keep myself from staring?


Because watching the French love on one another is like watching the word passion manifest in front of your eyes. There is no space to breathe, no piece of flesh unnoticed, no touch avoided—it’s simple, sexy, and very VERY real. I suppose that in that moment I realized how unreal I was, and how real they were. How they were able to live, and I was living in sleep—almost like death, and definitely alone. Alone and not being passionate. It made me feel longing and sadness all at once.    Ugh.

There are too many windows in Paris. Note to self, do not walk around naked in the living room when the curtains are opened.