“See?” Poppy asked on the Métro on the way home. “Don’t you feel sexier now?”
I had to admit, she had a point. I spent longer than usual that evening blow-drying my hair, applying my makeup, and slipping into my dress. By the time I was done, I saw a completely different person in the mirror.
Perhaps the more different I felt, the easier it would be to forget about the life I’d left behind in the States.
“So you said you are new to our beautiful city?” Edouard asked as we walked to his car, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back.
“I’m getting to know it,” I answered.
“And I hope you are loving it so far?”
“I am.”
After a brief drive along the Seine in his little Renault, Edouard parked near the Musée d’Orsay and, with an enormous picnic basket in hand, led me toward the Pont des Arts, the beautiful pedestrian bridge that spanned the river between the Louvre on the Right Bank and the Quai Malaquais on the Left. When we found a spot on the bridge, he pulled out a perfectly folded white-and-red-checkered picnic blanket.
“My lady,” he said, gesturing to it after he’d spread it neatly, aligning the corners with the planks of the bridge.
“Can I help?” I asked, watching him in awe.
He smiled at me. “Just relax and enjoy.” He pulled out an iPod and mini speakers, then turned it on. “I’ve organized some selections from Serge Gainsbourg, to introduce you to one of our country’s legends,” he said. Soft jazz music began to waft from the speakers as Edouard lit a cigarette and busied himself pulling perfectly packaged foods from the basket and setting them up in front of us. I stared as the picnic materialized; he seemed to have brought at least a dozen dishes, some of which I’d never even seen before.
“You did all this for me?” I asked as he uncorked a bottle of red wine and began to fill two glasses. “You barely even know me!”
He shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette on the bridge. He exhaled a mouthful of smoke and smiled. “You said you hadn’t had a proper Parisian picnic yet,” he said. “I knew no better place to start than here.”
His chain-smoking aside, it felt like something out of a dream. To the west, the Eiffel Tower rose gracefully over the Seine, and to the east, I could see the twin towers of Notre Dame. To the north, the palatial Louvre seemed to go on forever; southward, the beautifully antiquated buildings of Paris dotted the Left Bank. As the sun began to dip low in the sky over the Eiffel Tower, the bright blue of early evening gave way to muted pinks and oranges on the horizon. It was breathtaking, the kind of scene that made me wish fervently I could paint or even take good photographs. It was the kind of evening mere words couldn’t describe.
While I looked on in awe, Edouard patiently explained some of the dishes he had brought to share with me. “This is goose rillette,” he said of the first item. It looked like a grayish, brownish box of mush, but when he spread it on a slice of baguette and I took a bite, my taste buds did a little happy dance on my tongue.
“This is amazing!” I said, my mouth still full. It was salty and sweet all at the same time, and it tasted entirely unfamiliar.
He grinned at me in amusement. “It’s a French specialty,” he said. “You can’t get it in your country.”
Next up were several fresh cheeses, including an herbed chèvre and a strong blue cheese, then a jar of tiny sour pickles called cornichons and a series of little salads, including a shredded carrot one that I couldn’t seem to get enough of. There were two kinds of meat paté, both of which were amazing, and a strange-looking dish that appeared to be hard-boiled eggs wrapped in ham and encased in gelatin but turned out to be surprisingly delicious.
By the time we were finished with our meal—which ended in espresso from a Thermos and fruit tarts that looked almost too beautiful to eat—the stars were starting to come out, and a crescent moon was rising above Notre Dame. Thoroughly stuffed, I lay back on the picnic blanket beside Edouard and looked up at the night sky.
“It is beautiful, no?” Edouard said after a moment, puffing on a cigarette.
“It’s amazing,” I breathed. I felt like we were in our own little world, although there were passersby walking to and fro and another couple on a blanket a few yards away making out like hormonal teenagers. The vague, sweet smell of marijuana wafted over from a trio of snickering teenage boys clustered on the other side of the bridge. I turned my head to the side to look at Edouard. “I think this is one of the most wonderful evenings I’ve ever had.”