Full Circle
A true story.
I’m going to tell you a story about a song. A particular song. One that is important to me and that is: “La Ritournelle” by Sébastian Tellier. Go listen to it now before we start the story. And make sure you at least have headphones on or are able to play it loud. There’s no sense listening to it if it isn’t loud. And you can’t stop the song before it’s done and you can’t fast forward or pause it halfway through. Make sure you are able to devote at least 7 minutes and 34 seconds of your life to this song. I would also just go ahead and put it on repeat while you’re at it.
I discovered this song about a year ago. A time that, looking back was probably one of the most beautiful and yet hardest times of my life thus far. Beautiful because I made some good work and was surrounded by people I loved. But hard because I was working tirelessly, all the time. Never fully satisfied with any of it. I was under a lot of stress and was constantly exhausted and sad and yet this song brought me a kind of momentary peace. That’s what good songs do. I discovered it sort of by accident while working one day. It goes on for about 4 minutes before the vocals even come in and normally if I hadn’t been so focused on what I was doing I might have even changed the song. I had never heard it before and the song just sort of popped into my queue on Spotify so quietly I hardly even noticed it. But two things happened the first time I heard it: 1) that what I had been listening to for 4 minutes prior to the first verse made perfect, complete sense and 2) that I liked this song very much.
When I find a song I like, I tend to replay it over and over again. I think it’s because I like to replay what I know is perfect. So I kept listening to this song on repeat for the next few weeks. It reminds me of driving back home to Oregon City from Portland after my day at school, where I would stop at my favorite little park overlooking the river and just sit for an hour or so. It was spring, I remember. It was the only part of my day where I felt like I could be alone and could justify not doing anything. I would play it on my way to work, and on my way home from work. I would play this song on my phone with the volume turned all the way up in the car cup holder, like I always do. It was like a friend that sat with me in the car and understood exactly how I felt. Always allowing me to refocus, resettle, reestablish.
Months go by and this song is still on my radar; each listen always bringing me back to this place where I feel like I know exactly who I am. It’s utterly perfect and sort of what I would imagine true love feels like a bit.
Sébastian Tellier happens to be a French artist. Here is the part in the story where I must tell you that I am irrationally and stupidly in love with France. I don’t really want to include this fact because I feel like people instantly judge me for being ‘in love’ with a place that is already so cliché and overrated. And I know that. When I talk about Paris and/or France, I feel like I’m telling you about a ridiculous celebrity crush that I’d rather not have you know about. But I have to include it because it helps you to understand the story. We don’t have time to get into this now but just know that the embarrassing posters are plastered all over my bedroom walls (metaphorically speaking).
Fast forward and I am on my way to Paris. I listen to it on the plane. In our apartment. On the street. I feel Paris when I listen to it. In Paris, it felt right. It felt appropriate. I listened to it at Versailles, the place that had been my dream to go to for so long. It was amazing. It became my own personal theme song that I wanted to live in and relive. But it wasn’t the highlight. Not yet.
After our time in Paris this song came south with me to Marseille. My friend and I are walking along the beach late at night. It’s about 10 pm. We wanted to go sit on the beach, but realized that it had closed at 9. We sit down on a bench and just look at the waves before deciding to keep walking. To my left I hear two guys sitting about three benches down, singing to a guitar. I think to myself, “It would be so cool if we were friends with them right now.” We continue to walk past them and to my surprise they start speaking to us in English. I turn around and we start talking. Their names are Gregory and Max, French American brothers who lived just a few blocks away from the beach. They speak fluent French and I like to point out this fact. They also speak fluent English with only a slight, worldly kind of accent. They tell us that these beaches aren’t like American beaches and that we could easily hop the fence if we wanted to. After debating the idea for a few minutes, the four of us decide to go for it. We spent hours with them on that beach. We talked, laughed, shared stories, drank wine, smoked cigarettes and listened to Gregory play his guitar. More wine appeared and we drank that too. We went in the ocean. After a few hours we were friends. We then ended up going to this underground nightclub on the Vieux Port called Trolleybus (“trawl-ay-boose”). Gregory and I walked side by side down the streets. We smoked more cigarettes and drank some more and danced in the coolest place I have ever step foot into. It sounds like a magical life and it truly was. It was one of the best nights of my entire life. It was the first time that I knew a black guy for sure wanted to have sex with me. He was from London and had an accent and was attractive. I forget his name. Normally I would have been intrigued but I knew that I was with French American Gregory who gave me free cigarettes and wine and paid for me to get into the club and although he wasn’t into dancing with me at the moment that London guy was talking to me, he looked cool in his white t-shirt and leather jacket and spoke French and lived in France and knew my name and there was nothing else in the world that mattered. French American Gregory wore fancy shoes that clapped on the ground when he walked. On a side note, if you’re a woman and you ever find yourself with a French American who flirts with you, if he doesn’t have fancy shoes that clap on the ground and echo in alleyways, he isn’t worth your time. I lied and told the London guy that I already had a boyfriend.
I saw Gregory and Max one more time during our stay in Marseille. We met up for drinks at this outdoor bar/restaurant. We were sitting there for the longest time just talking until this random guy sits down at our table. He was drunk, black, slightly overweight, very hairy and kind of attractive. Probably mid 30’s. I have no idea what he said the entire time but apparently he was quite funny and after about an hour or so of him sitting with us and me listening to the three of them speak in French and laughing appropriately, Gregory and Max decide that they want to go to chill at this guy’s house. I wasn’t really into the idea but I didn’t want the night to end either. It was probably risky, but I trusted Gregory and Max.
So we go to this crazy French guy’s apartment. We walk up the winding steps and into his place, where I presume he lived alone. The place was nearly empty and devoid of any personal touches but he did have a large recliner and a small table in his living room that was piled up with a bunch of little things. An ash tray, papers, wine glasses, etc. His apartment was dirty, small and plain. White walls with high ceilings and tall windows. He had to bring in three more chairs for us and I wondered how exactly this night was going to go down. We drank wine and smoked more cigarettes. This is where I will pause and say that if you are offended at this, just know that this is what you do in France. And to not do so is to not fully participate in the experience, which is something I completely reject.
After awhile we start playing music on our phones and this guys’ computer, each taking turns requesting and playing songs. Gregory played with this guys’ ukelele to each song, intuitively guessing the chords and kind of improvising as he went. It was nice. What had started out as sketchy had gotten really comfortable.
My turn to play a song. I played it for myself, not expecting it to be some crazy magical moment, but for me to just secretly enjoy by myself the fact that I was listening to one of my favorite French songs, made by a French artist, had just made friends with 3 French people and was in France, living life. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to revel in this theme.
The second it starts playing Gregory comments that he knows the song and that he likes this song. I mean of course he knows the song, right? He’s French. But there’s probably tons of French people who don’t know this specific song. Or the artist. Or maybe they know the artist, but not the song. Or maybe they know the song but not the artist. Or maybe they have only heard it once before. Or maybe they have heard it but they don’t particularly like it. There’s a million people I could have met in Marseille but I happened to meet one who also knew, and liked my song. My heart is beating out of control but I play it cool. He starts playing the chords to the song, matching the melody and the timing perfectly with his little ukelele, strumming gently. I was smiling from ear to ear. I knew that what I was experiencing in that moment would never happen again and that this life is insanely, incredibly good.
There is a key change at 3:44 as it builds to the chorus. I always know the exact moment where the vocals come in and I motion with my hands like a giddy idiot to prompt Gregory to sing along to the chorus.
It was utter perfection. Gregory sang the song, right there in front of me, in that dirty apartment, sitting on two folding chairs in an empty living room in the middle of the night at this strange man’s house. Do you realize how amazing this is? He actually sang the song. Right then and there. HE SANG THE SONG! And he has a great singing voice and is confident too! I smiled so big I’m sure it actually brought tears to my eyes. I could consciously grab the thought that I was experiencing pure joy in that very moment. And I don’t know if there’s ever been a time in my life that I could say that’s happened before. I knew it was a moment. I knew that it was a gift that had been given to me. It felt like so many different pieces of my life were coinciding in this most random, beautiful event and I almost couldn’t believe I was actually living it. But I was.
The next day we left Marseille and I don't think I'll see or talk to Gregory or Max ever again. But I will still listen to this song. And I will still continue to like it.
Oh nothing's gonna change my love for you I wanna spend my life with you So we make love on the grass under the moon No one can tell, damned if I do Forever journeys on golden avenues I drift in your eyes since I love you I got that beat in my veins for only rule Love is to share, mine is for you