I worked 5 jobs for 5 months to earn enough money to go on a Study Abroad in Paris in 1990. Once I was there, I wanted to get a tattoo on my ankle so celebrate my accomplishment. I pictured a future where people would ask me where I got my tattoo, and I would toss my hair in a nonchalant way and say, “Paris.”
This was before tattoos were common and before google was invented. Tattoo parlors were difficult to find and located in undesirable locations. I looked in my dictionary, found the word for tattoo—“tatouage”—and asked around about where to find a tattoo parlor. Judging by people’s reaction, you’d think I had asked if there was a store nearby I could rob. I took the Metro to the crime-ridden red light district called Pigalle, and walked up a hill past prostitutes, pimps, and pickpockets to find Bruno’s Tatouage. Full of drunk sailors, I looked out of place in my floral sundress with a bow in my hair, but I felt right at home. My Dad was in the Navy, and always a gentleman, so I adored sailors. However,when I told my Dad my affection for sailors, he had a different reaction, a “Stay the hell away from sailors!” reaction. I looked through the tattoo books to get ideas for a tattoo, and when I came across a “Marguerite” (daisy). I showed it to Bruno, who was wearing a white lab coat. He shook his head, pushing me out the door and pantomiming eating. I turned around and looked at him as he flipped his sign from open to closed. Rude. I went to the parlor over and over, and Bruno kept refusing to give me a daisy tattoo on my ankle. Everyone spoke in French and I sat on a chair and happily watched a wide array of fascinating people getting tattoos. After my third visit, Bruno pinched his fingers at me, saying, “Ahhh, douleur dans le cul!” All the men in the joint looked at me, laughing. I smiled and blushed, assuming Bruno’s term of affection for me meant something like, “Most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen!” or “Magical girl who’s going places!” I asked one of the men what the phrase meant. He consulted with the others and managed to say, “Pain in ze… what you call it? … ass. Yes, pain in ze ass.”
I put my hands on my hips and sighed. “Thanks Bruno. Now, I’d like my tattoo.” He reluctantly gave me the daisy tattoo, and he must have had trouble seeing over his gray moustache because it turned out completely lopsided. I had to call it a “Wild Daisy” to explain its haphazard shape.
Eight years later, I returned to Bruno’s Tatouage with my little sister, her husband, and my friend Eric in tow. We all got tattoos. My sister got a little heart on her shoulder with the words, “One Love” next to it. Her husband got a matching heart with her name next to it, and Eric got a martial arts symbol, a sword I think. I had the daisy covered with a tattoo of the black cat from “Le Chat Noir” by Toulouse Lautrec. An adorable young tattoo artist did it. I showed him a photo of Le Chat Noir, and when he started adding extra lines, I said, “What are you doing?” He said, “Arteestic License!” Why did I insist on getting tattoo’s at Bruno’s? I don’t know. It’s been more than twenty five years, so at this point, my beautiful black cat is starting to look like a blob with ears. But I can still toss my hair and say, “Paris!” when people ask me where I got the black blob on my ankle. I was getting the cat done when Bruno when entered the joint. I said, “Hi Bruno. Remember me?” He laughed and shook his head and said, “Douleur dans le cul.”
I’m glad I’m so memorable.
