Except Thibault never showed up.
I waited until twelve fifteen before I called Poppy from the cell phone she’d given me yesterday (presumably to be reachable twenty-four hours a day, so that I could come running whenever Guillaume got himself into a scrape).
“You’re kidding,” she said flatly when I announced that my date was a no-show.
“Nope.”
She hesitated for a moment. “Maybe he’s just late. Give him another fifteen minutes.”
So I did. I sat back down on the bench and tried to distract myself by trying to guess the nationality of the tourists who streamed by my perch.
Fifteen minutes came and went. Still no Thibault. I’d been stood up.
So much for my confidence-inspiring leap back into the dating pool.
I pulled out my phone to call Poppy back. Then I stopped. What was she going to say that would make me feel better? I didn’t want to go back to her tiny apartment and mope about my bad luck with guys. I’d done quite enough of that on my own, thank you. And wasn’t it Poppy who had gotten me into this mess in the first place? I felt pathetic.
I sighed and stood up from the bench. I didn’t need a guy to see Paris with, did I? I’d take myself to lunch and go on my own tour of the city.
Trying not to think about the fact that I’d just been dumped before the first date (a new record for me), I walked west on the ?le de la Cité, then I crossed to the Right Bank over the Pont Neuf, feeling my heart leap a bit as I looked off to the left and saw the tip of the Eiffel Tower soaring above the gleaming water. I should have known better than to spoil my time here by letting Poppy talk me into trying out some dating game.
I found a little café across the street from the water on the Right Bank, just to the left of the bridge. As I ducked inside the dimly lit café, which had burgundy walls and neatly spaced little round tables of dark wood, the waiter at the door said something to me in French, but of course I didn’t understand.
I shook my head. “Je ne parle pas fran?ais,” I mumbled, feeling like an idiot.
He smirked a bit at me. “Ah, une americaine,” he said, as if it were a bad word. “Sit anywhere.”
“Merci.” I nodded and walked to a table for two by the window, overlooking the sidewalk outside, which was filled with Parisians and tourists hurrying to and fro. Off to the left, I knew, was the H?tel de Ville, Paris’s ornate city hall. Off to the right was the enormous Louvre. Perhaps I’d join the crowds and see it after lunch today.
I glanced around and noticed several clusters of people close to the bar. One group, obviously American, judging from their baseball caps, sneakers, and loudly familiar accents, were chugging beer.
The waiter came and plunked down a menu in front of me without a word. I glanced at it and realized immediately it was all in French.
“Um, excuse me!” I said. The waiter stopped in his tracks and turned. “Do you have a menu in English?”
He smirked at me some more. “No. Only French.”
“Oh.” I was temporarily deflated. I reached into my bag, where I kept Just Enough French, a little French travel dictionary I’d picked up at the airport before I left the States. I flipped to the “In a Restaurant” section and began to try to decipher the menu. I hadn’t thought I’d need it today, I thought glumly. I’d thought I’d have a handsome Frenchman with me to serve as a translator. But no such luck.
“You would like a large Coca-Cola?” the waiter asked a moment later, reappearing at my elbow.
I looked up in confusion. “No. I’ll have a café au lait and a glass of water, please.”
“What? No Coca-Cola?” He smirked some more. “I cannot believe it.”
“No,” I repeated, puzzled.
“All Americans want Coca-Cola,” he said. He laughed. “A large Coca-Cola for all Americans!”
Then he pranced away, leaving me staring after him.
“Just ignore him,” said a voice from behind me. I turned and saw a sandy-haired guy with thin-rimmed glasses sitting a few tables away, by himself, with a tattered paperback open in front of him. He looked like he was about my age, and he spoke with a thick French accent. “There is a certain stereotype of some Americans. It’s silly, really.”
I attempted a smile. “Do we all really order large Coca-Colas?”
“Most of you do, yes.” He grinned. “You are new in the city?”
I nodded. “I just got here a week ago.”
“You are dining alone?” he asked. He closed his book and peered closely at me.
I hesitated then nodded. “Yes. I was supposed to meet someone, but . . . Well, it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“May I join you?” he asked. It should have sounded presumptuous, but somehow it didn’t. He didn’t make a move to stand up, as if waiting for my approval before his next step.
I hesitated. After all, I didn’t know this guy. And hadn’t I just made a self-aware promise to be independent and experience Paris alone for the day?
“I’ll help you translate the menu,” the guy prompted with a smile.