(I wrote this piece some time in 2003, and it is largely based off an experience I had at the monument for the Battle of Verdun (Northern France). I would call it a work of fiction... except the only part that is fiction is the very end of it with the final comment... Questions? You'll just have to ask me more if you're curious.) >:-) Hope you enjoy!
She leafed through the pamphlets, almost absently. Small snippets of English here and there stuck in her mind: “The Battle at Verdun…” and “The soldiers who were killed…”
The gift shop held no appeal for her. Glancing at the nearest group of her traveling companions, she slipped outside without being noticed by the amused teenagers.
‘This sucks,’ she thought, heading up the path to the parking lot. Everything had gone wrong for her that morning for mere starters. Besides that, the reality of the fact that this month long tour of Europe with a group of French speaking students from a small Utah community she was on would come to an end all too soon for her. That reality was crashing down around her much too fast and much too soon. Life back at home was nothing she wanted to rush back to.
Suddenly, she noticed the long haired man in tight leathers snuffing out a cigarette with the heel of his boot just ahead of her. It was right then that he turned around and smiled at her.
Her immediate reaction was to smile back. Why? She didn’t know. Everything from her religious upbringing and quiet home town customs should have been sending frightened thoughts and red flags through her mind at the sight of this man and his entire appearance that so clashed with the culture she had been raised with. Brushing her hair over the shoulder of her suede coat, she silently reprimanded herself. ‘Mr. Burnah said to stay with the group and never talk to strangers.’
The man stepped into pace with her as she walked past him. “Did you come in on the coach?” He had no distinct accent, but he looked like an American.
“Well, the bus,” she corrected, pointing to the large Briam Socha parked across the way. She kept the exchange civil. She had no reason to be eagerly talking to him though she was struggling to repress her curiosity at why he even had the audacity to strike up a conversation with her in the first place. Was this normal for complete strangers to start talking with each other and asking so many questions at foreign war monuments in European countries? Wasn’t it usually a “Take picture?” in broken English and then a ‘one-two-three-snap-click-snap’ and on your way kind of deal?
He nodded in response to her short answer. “Are you from America or Canada?”
“America,” she responded shortly, letting her thoughts wander. ‘I shouldn’t be talking to this guy. What would Mr. Burnah say if he saw? But he is so friendly…’ she argued with herself. ‘And he’s really attractive.’
“I’m Dan,” he said.
“I’m Jen,” she replied, smiling.
“Nice to meet you, Jen.” A corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “Do you want to meet the rest of my gang? And maybe check out my motorcycle?” he asked, motioning towards a group of a dozen or so motorcycles with several leather-clad riders lounging around them.
She allowed herself a brief moment to consult with reason, battling her inner-self with the idea of whether to stay and do as she had been told—stay with the group and stop talking to this ‘stranger,’ or go with Dan, this mysterious man with the motorcycle and perhaps get a glimpse of the unknown, the world beyond what she knew. The unknown holds a lot of fear and danger. But perhaps the unknown it is power and freedom from fear. The battle waged on, reason and sense and rationale screaming inside of her to listen, but ultimately she rejected its advice. “I’d love to,” she replied.
Dan gave her a captivating smile with her response and offered her his elbow as she looped her hand inside and let him escort her across the monument grounds towards his group of friends and motorcycles.
Shortly thereafter, Dan and his gang left Verdun with one more member than they had come with. Jen turned and watched, knowing this would change everything, as the Briam Socha got smaller and smaller, her belongings still sitting in the storage compartments beneath it. Finally, it disappeared behind the rounded monument with its sprawling field of crisp, white crosses.
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