“Where do you want to go to?” she asked.
“Paris, I think.”
“Nowhere else?”
“Well, Paris to start with. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“All right, let’s start with Paris.”
This was the last conversation I had with my girlfriend before she was tragically mauled to death by bears in the fall of 1997, before hibernation season.
“It would be a good place to start,” I said, “since we both know a little French already, and you think England would be too easy. How long do you think we should go for?”
“Six months to a year. Any longer away from home and I don’t think I could bear it.”
I don’t have to explain the irony of that last pun to you — though of course she didn’t know it was a pun at the time. What a tragic thing to say. She was eventually proved right: she couldn’t bear it. Apparently, neither could her new boyfriend or the six newborn puppies they took with them.
“Six months sounds good,” I said. “Do you have any relatives there?”
“In England? Yes.”
“No, in France. We’re going to France, right?”
“Oh. No.”
“No, we’re not going to France?”
“No, I don’t have relatives in France,” she said tiredly.
“Oh. Neither do I.”
“That’s okay, we don’t need relatives. What are we going to do in France? We could go see the Black Forest!”
She probably shouldn’t have been so eager to see the Black Forest. There are bears there.
“That’s in Germany,” I said.
“No, it’s not. It’s in France.”
“It’s very close to France. But it’s not in France.”
“I’m pretty sure the Black Forest is in France.”
“I’m very sure it’s part of Germany.”
“Well, let’s not fight about it. I can’t bear it when we fight.”
She really used that word too much.
“Who says we’re fighting?” I said.
“You’re getting defensive because you think the Black Forest is in Germany.”
“It is in Germany!”
“No. No, it isn’t.”
“The Black Forest, or der Schwarzwald, as they call it in Deutschland, is in Germany.”
“I cheated on you!” she exclaimed.
She made this exclamation just as the waiter happened to arrive with our dinner. He looked deathly embarrassed. On a side note, my girlfriend had unfortunately ordered the salmon.
“What?” I said.
“I cheated on you. Last month. I’m sorry.”
I was silent for minutes. I was confused and felt like I had just been transported to a foreign land. Like a bear that has stumbled onto a human campsite surrounded by little yelping puppies, I was lost and angry.
“Was it Tim?” I asked finally.
“It was Tim.”
“Mr. Tim I’m-good-with-animals Tim? That Tim?”
“Yes, that Tim.”
“Why would you bring this up when we’re planning to go to Europe together?”
“I actually just wanted your opinions so I could decide where Tim and I are going. But I couldn’t ask like that.”
“So you made me believe we were going to Europe together so you could get ideas for where you could go with the man you are leaving me for?”
“Yes.”
Then came the truly awful, uncomfortable part. I was angry. I don’t know what made me do it but I said to her, “I hope you get mauled by bears,” and I left.
“Well, it’s a good thing there aren’t any bears in France, then!” she called after me. I later found out she had also cheated on me throughout high school geography.
Mostly I feel bad about it. Mostly. The pictures of the puppies were particularly disturbing.
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