Cirque Éloize Audition: Part IV of *VII (Patreon)

My eyes snap open before my alarm goes off. 

6:32 am.

The room is a collage of faint shades of deep to deeper shades of navy blue in the dark of the early winter morning. I could make out the edge of the table, the doorframe, the lamp from the dribble of streetlight leaking past the edge of the curtains.

I took inventory of my body.

No headache (a relief, never a given).

Muscles felt ok (but would need some TLC after this entire adventure was over; in particular, I wished I could just hire a steamroller to crush all the knots out of my forearms and then reinflate them back to their normal dimensions with a kids' party balloon handpump). 

I had that slightly nauseous feeling that tells me I haven't slept enough. I'd have to get up and sip water and hope that once my body woke up a bit more that the feeling would pass. 

I'd made a list the night before so that I could cruise through these ugly-early morning moments on autopilot: water; get dressed; put the kettle on; wash your face; make the coffee; pack the snacks; more water; eat a little something; pack the rest; sip the coffee; the rest in a thermos; grab the bags (already packed, already by the door); walk to the Metro. 

I was out the door by 7:15am, emerging from the Place D'Armes Metro by 7:32am. My phone pinged! with a text from Glory. 

<< We're gonna arrive right at 8:30am!  >> it read. <<Any chance you have time to grab me a coffee on the way??? >>

<< No problem >> I typed back. << Latte? >>

<< yes plz >>

<< regular milk? >>

<< yep >>

<< does LeeAnn want anything? >>

<< she says she's good >>

<< cool. see u shortly! >> 

There's a little café called Chez Mère-Grand just up the street from Cirque Éloize HQ, on Rue Berri. It's a part of the city where the buildings are quite old: the bridges and overpasses are made from giant, human-sized chunks of masonry; the smaller houses are narrow, unique, tucked into odd property footprints. It's in one of the latter buildings that the café sits. The moment you walk in the door you're greeted by a marquee-type sign propped up against the back of a handsome, large espresso machine that reads "FUCK, I'M TOO LATTE" (which instantly endears it to me). 

The owner (?) / main barista I would always see there was this guy with a fantastic beard named 'Romain'. 

I would stop in at this café often this summer to abuse Romain with my conversational French practice, back when I'd join my friend Alex for contortion sessions at the open pro training Éloize offered (generally before a straps lesson in the afternoon/early evening up at Kalabanté with William or Victor Fomine). Romain would let me ask my grammatical clarification questions or request a word that was missing from my vocabulary so I could try a phrase in French with him again before continuing the conversation. He hit that perfect note between 'friendly, but not a friend' that made it easy to have this kind of interaction. 

He was also the source of a fairly strong boost of gender euphoria each time I'd come into the café: for whatever reason, he instantly read me as being a guy – and the conversation, style, and tone took the easy shape of conversation between men (or a man [them] and someone else perceived to be a man in that moment [me]) that I was starting to recognize and become comfortable with. When Alex would come into the café before or after me and ask Romain if he'd seen me, he'd refer to me with masculine pronouns. It was an assumption, but it was one that I liked. It was easy. 

When I walked through the door of Chez Mère-Grand on Wednesday morning at 7:48am, I greeted him with a "Bonjour, Romain!" 

It was a bit chilly that morning: the first iciness of the winter to come was nipping at my ears and nose. I'd bundled up in a purple toque and a red tasselled scarf I'd scored at a second-hand store in Toronto last month. 

"Bonjour mademoiselle," he replied. "Juste un moment–" He turned away to put the finishing touches on the drink of the customer in front of me. 

Unexpected, I thought to myself. Was my voice higher when I said hello? No, it was ... low. Is it the scarf? That's funny if it is. Maybe this'll turn into one of those funny 'oh ha ha I didn't really look at you' conversations once we're face to face and he's taking my order. 

As I waited, I also realized that I didn't feel like I had the French vocabulary in my brain that early in the morning, with the audition looming imminently, to boldly tackle that conversation myself if he didn't remember me. I kept my mild amusement and curiosity close to my chest and decided to remain observational.

I remained a mademoiselle for the entirety of the interaction. 

Hmm, I mused as I exited the café back out onto Rue Berri.  I mean – it's been 2 months since I've been in his shop. So, whatever. But still, that's interesting ... what about me today reads as 'mademoiselle'? 

I'd intentionally picked a tank top with extra low cut arm holes for the audition to avoid this. Maybe it's because I'd been bundled up in all of my layers. Then again, it was being bundled up in all my layers that had seemed to garner me my first 'Sirs' and 'Bro's' when I was working in Vancouver last year. 

Who knows the how's and why's of it all. 

It's just kinda funny that it doesn't seem to have much rhyme or reasons – not any that I can determine, anyways.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Your next instalment of this audition adventure arrives on Wednesday at 11am EST, lovely humans! Until then, stay strange and wonderful.

XO Ess