Anyone who knows me knows that there is only one time to really panic-when I am quiet. Even if I'm yelling at you, you're better off than when I am seemingly polite, but completely silent. After all, I talk to my cat, my computer, cookbooks, the TV, and the apartment in general, so if I'm not talking to you it means you are ranked even lower than inanimate objects. Luckily, the Sauvage's parents had pretty much ignored me since the first day, and so no one really noticed that I didn't speak during lunch.

The only time the Sauvage's parents noticed me was when the Sauvage began to scratch his arm. His self basting technique had either resulted in an allergic reaction OR a variant of prickly heat. When the Sauvage began to scratch and complain, I shyly smiled because it's FUNNY. (You can see in the photo here the results of his "treatment") If I broiled myself with tanning oil after getting a sun burn, not only would I have laughed at myself I would build entire comedy routine around it a la Patton Oswald. But the Sauvage's mother noticed and pointed out to her husband that I laughed, yet another misstep for little Miss America here. I quickly hid my smile and went back to being invisible.

Afterwards, we head to the beach as usual. Except Nana wanted to go to a different beach. So we drive, me silently sitting shot gun-arms crossed. I just want to walk on the beach slowly and alone like I'm in an 80s power ballad music video. Let my tears roll into the sand as I try to tan, instead of trying to hold myself together in front of this child who I don't really like. Eventually we arrive not to a beach, but a rocky bay. It's a treacherous walk down to the water for me, and when I get to the bottom, Nana has decided she doesn't want to swim here. (You can see the beginning of the path to the "beach" on the right. Notice how you can't even see the water. ) The walk down was treacherous, but the walk up is almost impossible. Because I am now persona non grata, no one bothers to help me as I struggle up against gravity and the elements. Just as well. If they did, in that temper, I might well have pushed them to their deaths.

After I get to the top, I am furious. It's one thing to put up with the tyrannical child of your boyfriend, it's another thing to put up with the tyrannical child of who's who in terminal narcissism. When I get to the top, I get in the car I ask him, basically, "What the fuck?" He says shortly that Nana wants to go somewhere else. I tell him in my broken French that walking up those stairs was painful and difficult especially since I just want to be alone. He tries to yell at me, but even deprived of language a bitch like me knows enough to fight. "You talk to me like a dog," I say" 'Come' "Sit' 'Wait' but I am NOT A DOG." He ends the "conversation" quickly by telling Nana, who has been playing rather than climbing the stairs, to come quickly. When she gets in the car, he snaps at her that she can't complain about the next beach because climbing the rocks here was difficult for me. As if my comfort was even a consideration.

When we get to the next beach, a small sandy strip, there is the usual trek to a far point on the sandy beach. They finally settle themselves-the Sauvage concerning himself with Nana exclusively. After he settles her, I tell him I want to go back to the hotel. It would only be a five minute drive for him, but he looks at me blankly and asks me what I want to do. I tell him the same thing I've been saying this morning I WANT TO BE ALONE. I know enough French, and repeated it enough times to know I am saying it correctly. He could easily offer me a ride to the hotel. It would just be a five minute trip in the car, but he just keeps looking at me blankly. Finally I say I'll walk back, but he tells me to stay. The walk, which I could do, is a daunting task. So I turn my attention to the rest of the beach hoping something in the sunny horizon will rescue me from this nightmare.

Most of the beach goers are families, and so I take my camera out and begin to photograph them. I am fascinated by how families play and communicate with each other, how they relate to their environment. If that sounds cold and distant, it probably is as well as the most likely reason I don't have a family myself. After a while though even my anthropological studies of French beach going families began to bore me. I thought about going in the water, but somehow it didn't appeal to me.

To the right of the beach were some rocks that led to a grassy bluff. I saw some teenagers climbing up. All I wanted was to be away from the Sauvage, even if it meant risking my death on a French beach. So I got up, and without saying a word headed for the rocks.

"Time to show this motherfucker a little bit of the American 'Can-Do' attitude" I thought as I quickly scrambled up the rocks. The climb was actually pretty easy even in sandals. Half way up I turned to look back and saw the Sauvage watching. He didn't wave or show concern, if he was concerned. And me? As I reached the cool and grassy top, I don't bother to look back before vanishing to the other side. I liked it much better there-the cool air and the butterflies, far from the families and the couples.

No one else was there, and so I found a little spot and sit. I looked out at the French Sun and sand and every drop of that French ocean and swor e that by everything I saw, I WOULD GET A BOOK DEAL OUT OF THIS TRIP. Happy ending or not. If I can go to travel to Paris on my own and have insane adventures, than getting a book deal out of it should be simple.

But even looking out at the ocean, I don't believe it. I'll return home enormously depressed because now I've utterly failed romantically on two continents instead of just the one. There will be a dearth of emails/phone messages. I'll desperately try and scrounge up someone to come with me for wings and beer and the usual post break up rant, but everyone will be too busy. And instead of writing, I'll slowly give into a haze of vodka tonics, late nights, tear soaked pillows, and puffy eyed mornings. Because I just don't have the energy to write the Great American Novel. I barely have the energy to promise that I'll write the Great American Novel because I've wasted it all on running after idiot men who give give more consideration to the type of toilet paper they are going to buy than my needs.

I looked out at that sun and the water and remembered that Nietzsche once wrote that Woman was God's Second Mistake. "Clearly," I thought to myself, "France was his first."