Are you famous?
By: Philippa Hughes
Tags: Race, Travel, Identity, Travel Writing, Paris

Are you famous?

“Are you famous?” asked a slightly inebriated German man sitting at the other end of a communal dining table at Le Bistro du Paradou where nephew and I had stopped for lunch on our road trip to Andorra last week.

I’d taken the train from Paris to Marseilles early that morning, rented a car, and picked up nephew from a street corner near a youth hostel where he’d spent the previous night. One large backpack hung from his shoulders and a smaller pack clung to his chest like a baby Bjorn. He carried a bag filled with pastries and a baguette in one hand and the stinky shoes he’d worn through Europe over the last three months were inside another bag in the other hand.

We’d barely left Marseilles on the drive through southern France when I saw a sign pointing to Les Baux de Provences, the tiny medieval village near the unpretentious bistro serving rustic Provençal cuisine I’d discovered two years ago. I’d sat under the cool shade of ancient plane trees on a hot summer day drinking cold rosé and dipping vegetables, boiled eggs, potatoes, and snails into creamy, garlicky aioli. The meal ended with their signature cheese course, eight generous portions of cheeses from around the region served on an enormous rattan tray. I vowed to return one day.

I briefly considered the wisdom of detouring for a leisurely four-course meal at the beginning of a seven-hour drive through winding, unfamiliar mountain roads in the dark. My doubts disappeared when one of the servers welcomed us outside the unassuming building on the side of a country ride and pointed to the menu of the day, cassoulet. Though I’d been dreaming about the aioli, I’d told nephew that I hoped we would eat cassoulet in Andorra, which was near the part of France where this dish was a specialty. Turned out, the Paradou changes its menu with the seasons and Wednesday was cassoulet day!

Cheerful chatter filled the crowded restaurant. Our gregarious server double-checked to make sure we ate meat. He suggested we bypass the wine list and drink from the open bottle of regional red wine on the table that was included with the meal. I complied.

Nephew and I sat at one end of a long wooden farm table. Two German couples occupied the other end. One of the women leaned over and asked us where we were from. After I told her Washington, DC, she nodded and then pointed at nephew and said, you’re not from there, where are you from?

As soon as we’d gotten out of the car and as we walked into the restaurant, I’d noted we were the only people with Asian faces in the busy place. I habitually survey my surroundings everywhere I go and unconsciously count how many people around me look like me. I don’t brood over the information, but I am aware that I am often the only one.

Every once in a while, I detect less friendly treatment. On occasion, someone says something disparaging. Sometimes someone like the German lady points out my nonconforming visage, but with genuine interest. Regardless of the intent, I maintain constant vigilance. I wish I could free up that space in my brain.

I felt protective of my nephew and told the friendly lady that he was from Northern Virginia. I think my firm tone made it clear that there would be no further discussion of that fact and she moved on easily to a different line of inquisition. I told her I was writing about what it means to be American based on my conversations with people from across the political spectrum. She didn’t speak English well enough to express everything she felt about that, but when her eyes opened wide and she drew back suddenly, her body language told me enough about where she stood.

When her husband leaned over her to ask me if I was famous, I smiled mysteriously.

“You don’t have to tell me. I can Google you!” he exclaimed.

I later explained to nephew that whenever my hair is blond, people often tell me they think I look like (pre-facelift) Renée Zellweger. Sometimes people don’t immediately make the connection to Renée, but they have a hazy recollection of someone famous who vaguely resembles me.

Nephew shrugged and asked, “Who’s that?”

Stunned, I quizzed him on Bridget Jones and Jerry Maguire, neither of which he’d seen or even heard of. She hasn’t been in any big movies lately, so I suppose you’d have to be of a certain age to see the resemblance.

At the end of our trip to Andorra, nephew traveled south on a bus to Barcelona and I headed north to Toulouse to catch a train back to Paris. I badly needed coffee, but there were few places to stop along the two-lane road down the mountain, through the national forest at the foothills, and across the plains of Occitanie. I hesitated to pull over because I worried about the intolerant people I might encounter if I stopped at a café in a rural area. I might have been able to make it all the way to Toulouse without a coffee break, but my bladder had other ideas. I reassured myself that blondness created a thin shield of whiteness. Even though I knew my blond hair did not guarantee protection from peril, I felt a little safer. Someone with real blond hair never thinks about such things. (Though we women are always thinking of the dangers of traveling alone.)

The barista at the roadside café greeted me with a hearty “Bonjour” when I entered the building. I used the bathroom, drank an espresso and ate a croissant, and paid two euros, which is the least I have paid for those two things in the three months since I have been in Europe. He cheerfully wished me “bonne journée” as I resumed my journey.