I nodded and kissed her forehead, noting that there must have been some tragedy in her life. I didn’t press the issue and just let it go. “No worries, my love. It was just a turn of phrase."
We headed for the hatch on the barge, and I helped her up the last two steps. Sometimes they’re slippery in winter. On deck, I stretched and enjoyed the weak afternoon sunshine. "I’m baptized, confirmed even. But growing up the way I did, there was plenty that I learned that wasn’t strictly according to Roman Catholic tradition."
“I’m sure," Jordan noted wryly. "I doubt your parents were ever married in a Catholic church."
I nodded, keeping my words to myself, and smiled. "Along the way we can get some lunch. It’s not a proper introduction to Paris without a stop at a street stall for good food. Paris has the best street stall food in the world, even better than the food trucks of New York or street sellers in London."
Jordan grinned and patted her stomach. "Careful, you’re going to fatten me up."
I laughed and kissed her cheek again. "I'm sure we can find plenty of ways to burn off any extra calories," I teased. "Come, let's go."
There’s nothing quite like walking along the River Seine through the oldest parts of Paris, especially after spending nearly half a year in America. "Even the Nazis were not so craven as to destroy Paris," I said as we strolled. "Despicable in every other way, they could still appreciate that which is the City of Light."
Close to the bridge that leads to the island that Notre Dame is built upon, we found the exact type of street stall I was looking for, serving pommes frites, or French fries, and a sandwich in a baguette. "Here, nothing beats the way they do it here," I said, handing Jordan a large cone filled with the fried potatoes. “I’m sure the British would disagree, but who cares what they think?"
The vendor, who apparently understood more English than he let on — like many Parisians — grinned and nodded. Jordan laughed and smiled. "Merci."
The man grinned in appreciation, charmed by her attempt. We continued on, Jordan relishing the potatoes, which in the French tradition had been covered with a mayonnaise based sauce instead of ketchup. "I don't think I'll ever eat a fry the same way again," she said, licking a blob of mayo off her finger in a very arousing yet unladylike way. “Geez, how do you stay so thin with stuff like this around?”
"At our place in the Rhone, we have our ways,” I promised her. "It’s one of the ways that Papa trained Felix and I. Anyway, we’ll be doing a lot of walking today, I’m sure. I’m glad you chose tennis shoes instead of something more chic and fashionable. I knew one girl who insisted on wearing high heels for almost everything, and walking in Paris cut her ankles to shreds."
"I'm sure you had no qualms about tending to the young lady's wounds," Jordan teased, causing me to blush. Laughing, she kissed me on the cheek. "Don't worry, Francois, I'm not jealous."
Notre Dame is probably the most famous church in the world, and even in the middle of winter it was crowded with tourists. Flanked by old trees, the plaza in front was neatly trimmed, the shrubs waiting for the coming of spring. "An important place to people of my background," I joked as we admired the outer decorations. We passed a group of Americans who sounded like they were from Alabama or Georgia or someplace like that, and I looked up at the bell towers. "Sanctuary, and all that."
"Yet I’m the Esmeralda this time," Jordan replied, "although you hardly look at all like Quasimodo."
We joined a tour group, staying within earshot as the guide explained various things to them in passable English. I felt bad for the tourists, though, as the guide seemed to have forgotten every adjective other than 'famous.' In the course of the ten minutes we were near them, she used the term 'famous French' to describe at least half a dozen different things. Jordan noticed too, and on the way back to the barge, we both descended into utter silliness. "Ah, it is the famous French street lamp," I noted, causing Jordan to giggle helplessly.
"Along the famous French river," Jordan laughed, leaning on my arm. We continued on, until both of us nearly breathless with laughter. We rested against a building, Jordan in my arms, and she turned her eyes up to mine. "And what of the famous French kiss?"
That evening, after Jordan had gone to sleep, I left the barge again, this time taking the Metro to Stade Charlety. Underneath the larger soccer and rugby stadium I found what I was looking for, the small indoor arena. Inside, the Paris Volley volleyball team was practicing, the stands mostly empty except for a few dedicated fans and my contact.
"They’re not shit compared to Dynamo Moscow," my contact said in a heavy accent.
"You didn’t come here just to watch men in overly tight uniforms jump around playing volleyball," I countered. "Besides, women's volleyball is much more entertaining."