“You are visiting?” the guard asked after a moment, his voice so thick with a French accent that it took me a full ten seconds to decipher what he’d said.
“Oui,” I said firmly, although it occurred to me a moment after the word was out of my mouth that I wasn’t, in fact, a visitor. I was here to work. I wondered if I should tell him.
“For how long?” he asked, remaining stubbornly English speaking.
“Five weeks,” I replied. Suddenly the length of time sounded very long to me, and I had a strong urge to turn back around and make a dash for the departure gates.
The French guard muttered something unintelligible, stamped my passport, and handed it back to me.
“You may enter,” he said. “Enjoy your visit to France.”
And then I was in, being swept along in another tide of people into a country I hadn’t seen in years, to start a new life I wasn’t prepared for at all.
“Emma! Emma! Over here!”
I spotted Poppy the moment I passed through the doors on the far side of baggage claim, dragging my two giant purple suitcases behind me.
“Hi!” I exclaimed, feeling even more relieved to see her than I’d expected. I hoisted my laptop case and handbag up on my shoulder and dragged my enormous load of luggage toward her in what felt like slow motion. She was grinning widely and waving like a maniac.
“Welcome, welcome!” she said, clapping her hands excitedly before rushing forward to embrace me. Her shoulder-length, red-streaked dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a little too much makeup—which was pretty much how Poppy always looked. Three inches taller than me, she had a wide, ear-to-ear smile, rosy cheeks, enormous sea-green eyes, and curves she liked to describe as “voluptuous.”
Today she was dressed in a bright purple blouse, a black skirt that looked several inches too short and a size too small, and a pair of forest-green ribbed tights. She was currently giving me the signature Poppy grin, and I couldn’t help but smile back, despite my exhaustion.
“Let me help you with your bags, yeah?” she said.
With relief, I gave up one of the giant purple rollers to Poppy, who began lugging it toward the airport exit, her face promptly turning beet red from the strain.
“Emma, what on earth do you have in here?” she exclaimed after a moment. “A body?”
“Yep,” I said. “I’ve stuffed Brett into my luggage to dispose of him properly over here.”
Poppy laughed. “That’s the spirit! Give the tosser what he deserves, then!”
I smiled wanly, wishing that I felt as resentful toward Brett as Poppy evidently did. Clearly I had lost my self-respect, along with my job and fiancé.
As Poppy and I piled into a sleek black taxi and began to make our way toward the city center, I began to relax, soothed by the rhythm of her chirpy cadence. Somehow, being here with someone so familiar made the whole experience feel that much less foreign, even as everything around me was entirely unfamiliar. Gone were the Fords and Hondas and Toyotas I was used to back home. Instead the highway was a confused and honking mass of tiny smart cars, compact Peugeots, and boxy Renaults as it wove through suburbs that didn’t resemble anything I remembered about Paris.
Instead of quaint neighborhoods, rooftops with flowerpot chimney stacks, and windowsills framed by flowers, there were factories with smokestacks and enormous, characterless modern apartments with tiny balconies. Clotheslines hung with brightly colored T-shirts and jeans dotted the landscape, interspersed with hundreds of makeshift antennas. This wasn’t quite the charming France I had envisioned.
“We’re not into the city yet,” Poppy whispered, perhaps catching my worried expression.
“Oh. Right.” I felt moderately appeased.
But then our cabbie, who was mumbling to himself and driving at what seemed like the speed of light, shot off the highway, and the industrial skyline of the eastern suburbs suddenly gave way to my first glimpse of the Gothic towers of Notre Dame off in the distance.
It was the first time it had hit me—really hit me—that I was in Paris, a continent away from the only life I’d ever known.
I gasped. “It’s beautiful,” I said softly. Poppy squeezed my hand and smiled.
A few minutes later, as we emerged from a crowded thoroughfare, the rest of the Parisian skyline came into view, and my breath caught in my throat. In the evening light, with the sky streaked with rich shades of sunset pink, the Eiffel Tower was a soft outline against the horizon. I could feel my heart thudding against my rib cage as our taxi wove its way farther into the city, around pedestrians, past stop signs, through streets soaked with history and tradition.
As we crossed the Seine, I could see the sprawling Louvre museum, the looming Conciergerie, the stately H?tel de Ville. The fading sunlight melted into the river and reflected back a muted blend of pastels that seemed to glow from beneath the surface. It was, I thought, the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
“Welcome to Paris,” Poppy said softly.