There are crosswalks, but no clear pedestrian rules. People step off the curb without looking. Cars use their horns as frequently as I take a breath but they don’t seem the slightest bit annoyed. They honk, they move on. There don’t really seem to be lanes, just a steady stream of cars that stop and go and yield in a pattern I don’t understand. Street vendors offer pastries and bottles of bright, sparkling sodas, and people in suits and dresses, jeans and track pants rush past me as if I’m a stone in a river. The language is lyrical and fast . . . and completely incomprehensible to me.
It’s as if the city is spread lusciously before me, prepared to pull me fully into its intricate heart, into mischief. I’m instantly, deeply enamored. How could I not be? Everywhere I turn the streets look like the most beautiful sets I’ve ever imagined, as if the entire world here is a stage, waiting to see my story unfold. I haven’t felt this kind of buzz since I was dancing, lost in it, living for it.
I use my phone to find the métro station at Abbesses, only a few blocks from Ansel’s apartment, manage to locate the line I need to take, and then I’m left waiting for the train, struggling to take in my surroundings. I send Harlow and Lola pictures of everything I see: the French posters for a book we all loved, six-inch heels on a woman who would already be taller than most men on the platform, the train as it blows into the station, carrying hot summer air and the smell of brake dust.
It’s a short ride to the sixth arrondissement, where Luxembourg Gardens are located, and I follow a group of chattering tourists who seem to have the same destination in mind. I was prepared for a park—grass and flowers and benches—but I wasn’t prepared to find such huge stretches of open space nestled in the center of this busy, cramped city. I wasn’t expecting the wide lanes lined with perfectly manicured trees. There are flowers everywhere: row after row of seasonal blooms, cottage beds and wildflowers, hedges and lacy blossoms of every imaginable color. Fountains and statues of French queens offer contrast to the foliage, and the tops of buildings I’ve seen only in movies or pictures loom in the distance. Sunbathers stretch out on metal chairs or benches under the sun, and children push small boats across the water while Luxembourg Palace watches over it all.
I find an empty bench and take a seat, breathing in the fresh air and the scent of summer. My stomach growls at the smell of bread from a nearby cart but I ignore it, waiting to see how it handles breakfast first.
It’s then that I realize again that I’m in Paris. Five thousand miles from everything I know. This is the last chance I’ll have to relax, soak it in, create my own adventure, before I begin school and the regimented march from student to professional.
I walk every inch of the park, throw pennies into the fountain, and finish the paperback I had tucked in the bottom of my bag. For the span of an afternoon, Boston, my father, and school don’t even exist.
Chapter EIGHT
I’M ON SUCH a high from my day, I stop at the small market on the corner, intent on making Ansel dinner. I am all over this Paris thing, check me out. I’m learning to make do with the language barrier and find that the Parisians aren’t nearly as frustrated that I don’t speak French as I’d expected. They just seem to hate it when I try and then mangle it. I’ve been able to get by just fine with some pointing, smiling, innocent shrugging, and s’il vous pla?t, and manage to buy some wine and prawns, fresh pasta, and vegetables.
But my nerves creep back in as I walk to the rickety elevator and as it noisily ascends to the seventh floor. I’m not sure if he’ll be home yet. I’m not sure what to expect at all. Will we pick up where we left off in San Diego? Or is now when we start . . . uh . . . dating? Or has the experience of our first few days put him off this little experiment altogether?
I lose myself in cooking, impressed with Ansel’s small kitchen. I’ve figured out his stereo and have some French dance music on as I happily bounce around the kitchen. The apartment smells of butter and garlic and parsley when he walks in, and my body grows tight and jittery when I hear him drop his keys in the little bowl on the entry table, put his helmet on the floor beneath.
“Hello?”
“In the kitchen,” I reply.
“You’re cooking?” he calls, rounding the corner into the main loft of the apartment. He looks good enough to devour. “I’m guessing you feel better.”
“You have no idea.”
“It smells wonderful.”
“It’s almost ready,” I say, begging my pulse to slow. Seeing him makes the thrill inside me bloom so wide my chest grows tight.
But then his face falls.
“What is it?” I follow the path of his eyes to the pan on the stove where I’ve tossed the prawns with the pasta and vegetables.
He winces. “It looks unbelievable. It’s just . . .” He swipes a palm across the back of his neck. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”
I groan, covering my face. “Holy crap, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says, clearly distressed. “How would you have known?”
The question hangs between us and we both look anywhere but at each other. The amount of things we know about each other seems dwarfed by the amount of things we don’t. I don’t even know how to go back to the introduction phase.