Throughout my secondary schooling, I always dreamt of visiting France mainly because of the many wonderful stories heard from teachers and other people who had been there before. Everyday I practiced writing and speaking French for hours and surfed the internet for photos taken around the capital. The beauty of St. Kitts was nothing in comparison to that of France. Moreover, I was astonished by the magnificence of the glass buildings that adorned the capital. I imagined Paris as a reflection of heaven with streets of gold and gates of pearl. I eventually became so absorbed in this fantasy world that the thought of visiting it become an obsession.

During my final year of school, the Alliance Francaise announced that it would be hosting a singing contest with the first prize being an all expense paid trip to France. This announcement triggered an explosion of joy within me. It felt as if I had already won. Suddenly, I was reminded that I could not sing any better than an old lady with throat problems. I sank in a deep depression and almost began to cry thinking that not even a miracle could help my voice.

Noticing my pitiful state, my teachers asked what was bothering me. I explained in a rather listless and dreary tone that singing at the competition would be like standing blindfolded in front of the death squad. My home room teacher laughed hysterically and suggested that I write a song and allow someone else sing on my behalf. My lifeless body again filled up with enthusiasm. That same day, I began writing a song entitled “The Gold in France”. Over a few weeks, it was reviewed, improved and practiced by my sister in preparation for the competition.

The day of the contest, my sister performed wonderfully. She was awarded first prize on my behalf even though other participants disputed the supposed bias for me. All that mattered to me was finally going to France. I felt wealthier than any millionaire could ever feel. Having my life’s dream come true at sixteen years was an incomparable achievement. I was informed by the director of the Alliance Française that a representative of a youth group called “UCPA” would meet me at the airport. I was asked to submit two photos which were sent directly to the leader of this group. Also, I was told that he would be holding a poster marked “Sterge- UCPA” so that I may recognize him. Additionally, I was informed that food and all other expenses would be covered by the association. Having been satisfied with the plans, my parents agreed to schedule the trip for the first week of June.

On the day of departure, I woke at about 3 a.m. even though the flight was scheduled for 11 a.m. I got to the airport three hours before the scheduled flying time. Here, my parents wished me their last goodbyes, advised me of everything I should and should not do, then presented me with one hundred francs that I may have money for souvenirs. When the time came, I boarded the plane and began to savour the pleasure I hoped to get.

Being overjoyed to finally arrive to France, I hustled to be the first of over two hundred travellers to get into the immigration area. But, something stopped me very abruptly, so much so that it felt like colliding with an invisible entity. I was greeted by a strong, stifling and sweaty scent that equalled that of a football team bundled after a long match. It seemed as if this dreadfully deadening odour was a part of the room since no one else was there besides a few immigration officers. I quickly cleared immigration and customs to prevent suffocation.

I followed the instructions precisely. On my way to the hotel, I was so frightened and confused that sightseeing totally fled my mind. I arrived downheartedly to a hotel called “Formula 1″. It cost me all my money to spend one night. I had not eaten nor drank anything for the entire day and I was now penniless. That evening, my stomach ached mercilessly. It seemed as if my flesh and skin were being digested and absorbed in place of food. My mind was in utter turbulence reflecting on poorer children I knew and used to mock. Not being able to withstand such agony, I easily found the courage to return to the receptionist and pleaded for something to eat. She listened attentively to every word, stared at me, then replied in one short and cold phrase: “Black boy-No money, no food”

My life and dreams were shattered immediately. All my love and practice of the french language swiftly lost value. Preparing for this trip suddenly seemed like preparing my own demise. There was a raging storm of emotions and regrets intensifying by the second in my brain. The frightful thought of death resounded forcefully and piercingly in my brain. I wept and moaned all night until there was not enough moisture or strength left to produce tears. I prayed. I wailed. The notion of death recurred just as fast as a heartbeat. And, with each thought, the intensity of my weeping escalated.

I imagined doing anything just to leave France. The following day, all the life from my body had almost been drained. I barely had enough strength to lift myself from bed. I dragged myself from my room, took the bus and returned to the airport, resolute on returning home that very same day. I proceeded directly to the Air France desk, with tears in my eyes, and pleaded with the attendant for about an hour trying to have my return flight changed. The management of Air France was contacted and informed of my dilemma. Being just as distraught as I was, the manager quickly granted the change of flight. This experience showed me everything I could not see in photos or read in books. All the wonderful pictures and glass buildings were shattered in my mind. I refused to attend any more French classes or even listen to stories about France. All this time I had been envisioning this alleged “golden country”, however painful experience showed me that there is no true “gold” in France.