Qui Suis Je?

Qui Suis Je?
How well do we know ourselves, really? Our past, our present our future…how much of it do we actually know for sure? I think I might be a Russian.   I have had suspicions about my heritage for several years now. I was told I’m German, that my family apparently owns a castle in Germany but that the inhabitants of the castle, according to Grandpa Roland, might be Nazis; though he doesn’t know for sure because they don’t speak English so he can’t determine their political views and he has never met them. I know that Abraham Lincoln is my great, great, great, etc., grandfather or uncle or something, and that we have a painting his wife, Mary Todd did, that hung in the Whitehouse.   I should have known something was a miss when in Los Angeles, cab drivers spoke to me in words I didn’t understand coated in thick eastern European accents; or when the short guy that wore the blue baseball cap (every day) who served the salad at my college campus cafeteria asked me if I wanted to come to a meeting of the “Comrades.” A few months ago, the man seated next to me on my return flight from San Francisco thought I was a Russian mail-order bride. Who knew they flew Business class?   It wasn’t until very recently that I began to question, who I am and where did I come from? What I discovered is perplexing, humorous and a little bit peur. (Did I mention that I’m learning franglais?). I, largely, owe this revelation to my new friend Jeremy, the guy with the tan arms.   Jeremy and I met at Gare du Nord. We were both patted down and our luggage searched for Babybel cheese. He showed off tan arms and Oliver Peoples and I, an exposed belly button and my new Joseph designer boots. Lucky for me, my $20 sunglasses that I purchased half off at the LOFT were hiding at the bottom of my purse. Had I been in my supermodel mode and wearing my shades indoors as Jeremy was, we might not have ever become friends. He’s a label whore, but he’s hot so… I’m letting it slide.   Jeremy is half French half Swiss. He has a slight European accent, but more than French/Swiss, I’d say it’s a combination of, I sound sexy like this/Hot girls give me their phone numbers, but again, he’s hot so… I’m letting it slide. Jeremy grew up half his life in New York and went to school avec moi in Los Angeles at USC. We /admin/story/story/18150/weren’t friends at USC, I don’t even think we met, though we do have one very gay USC yell leader in common. The gay yell leader was in my tap dance class, but this was before he had reached the top of the top for a gay guy at USC, before he became a bellybutton showing, shirtless barbecues in the quad, giving out burgers for phone numbers, yell leader.   I’m staying at Paris’ first Urban Resort at Republique for the weekend doing a review. Jeremy decides to cash in on the free fun and volunteers to bring over a movie and a bottle of wine. We were going to go down to the hotel bar, but there appeared to be the beginning of some kind of model orgy—thirty something men showing off waxed chests beneath black buttoned down shirts, and waif-model type 18 year-olds drunk off of one martini. We weren’t physically qualified to order at the bar.   Jeremy arrived, hiding a DVD, a bottle of wine and toothpaste (I was out) under his charcoal pea coat. I was so excited to see what he brought, I literally jumped up and down tripping over my two inch too long jeans and fell to the floor. What did he bring? Porn.   Okay, he didn’t bring porn. He brought a movie called The Dreamers, it’s half in French, half in English and the three main characters, a voluptuous brunette and two average looking guys are naked most of the movie…I  covered my eyes in the scenes where the brother and sister were lying in bed together naked. Thanks Jeremy, thanks so much.   On our third glass of wine, bored by the incest, Jeremy decided to try on my clothes. I contemplated slitting my wrists with my nail file when the top button of my favorite pair of pants fastened perfectly around his waste. I grew more and more depressed as my shirt, shoes and favorite leather Donna Karen jacket piled onto his model frame. Stop. Here’s where I gotta ask…French? Gay? Or drunk? I’m screaming inside, I really am, trying to figure this out, “What is the answer, please God give me a sign…” when Jeremy suddenly stopped the fashion show. His hand rested over his mouth and he appeared to be in a state of shock. He spoke as if he were divulging an epiphany, “Kirsten…we must go to a club.”   Was he kidding? It was 1a.m. and I was wearing my striped pajama top and jeans. Jeremy started rummaging through my suitcase selecting possible outfits for me and I realized that there was no way out. I put on a silk turquoise camisole, my short Donna Karen leather jacket (yes, the one he had been wearing) and I added some height to my jeans with my chouette Joseph black boots.   My pulse was pounding…I was so nervous, I mean I don’t go to clubs! Well, at least not “straight” clubs. If I must go to a club I prefer it be a gay club because the likely hood of a stranger trying to stick his tongue down my throat is less. For the record, I speak from experience. I gave Jeremy a quick one over in his 7 jeans and black button down designer collared shirt, “Is…
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