by Lila Lacroix
I had brought a book to read during the flight, but to my surprise there was a small TV screen in the seat in front of me, controlled by remote control in my seat which offered a wide variety of TV show episodes, movies, games and music.
“This isn’t nearly as bad as all those movies and TV shows make out,” I thought to myself.
I spent the first four hours of the flight catching up and watching a couple of movies that I had been meaning to see but had never had the time to. Then, I settled into my seat, trying to fall asleep before we landed. Sure enough, I found it pretty tough, but I did get a nice nap in before the stewardess came over the PA system to announce that we were landing in Amsterdam shortly.
When we finally landed at Schiphol, I hurried to transfer to my new flight, but arrived in plenty of time. Two hours later I was landing in Paris, my new city. As our plane flew over the city, I got my first glimpse of the Eiffel tower, the icon of Paris. I knew as I looked over that I was going to love this place.
The plane landed and I followed the signs to get to the subway system, called the RER in Paris. I had looked up before I left exactly which train I had to take to get to my new apartment, and with ticket machines that had an English option, it wasn’t very difficult to buy my ticket either. The machine wouldn’t take my credit card, so I was glad that I had stopped at the bank a week earlier and ordered a few hundred Euros just to be safe. Carla had made fun of me for planning so deliberately, and I was tempted to text her and tell her just how useful that cash had been.
I arrived at my apartment forty-five minutes later. I already had the key, and when I entered I had to admit it was even smaller than I had expected. My little kitchen was to the right, with two stove tops, a microwave, a bar fridge, a sink and a bit of counter top. The counter overlooked the living room and bedroom combo, which had a pullout couch and a small TV on a table. To the left was a door leading into the bathroom, which consisted of a shower and a sink, with the actual toilet being in its own separate small room right next door. It was small, but it was cozy, clean and furnished and really that was all I wanted.
Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, I was completely exhausted. I knew this was jet lag, and even though everybody had told me that to avoid jet leg I had to stay awake, that I had to do my best to stay on a normal sleep schedule, I decided I was going to test out my new foldout bed, and maybe just have a little nap for a few minutes. Of course, I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, dreaming of the new adventures I was going to have here in my new home in the city of Paris.
Chapter Four
The next day I woke up ridiculously early. The sun wasn’t even close to up yet, and I knew thanks to the jet lag I knew it was going to take days before I was finally on a normal schedule again. Way to go, everyone told you not to fall asleep so early and that was the first thing you did, of course. As I scolded myself I also realized I had literally no food, and I was ravenous. I hadn’t eaten since the day before on the plane.
Looking at my phone, I saw it was just after five in the morning. I doubted whether anything would be open this early in Paris. Besides, I didn’t want to go out into this strange city, in a country where I didn’t speak the language by myself at night. I was just going to have to wait until the sun came up.
A few hours later I was showered, dressed, and had watched the news on the little TV on the table, although I understood absolutely nothing of what was said. The sun had come up, and I grabbed my purse and put on my coat and headed out.
My first day in Paris was absolutely nothing like I had imagined. I left my apartment and went down to the local bakery, or boulangerie as they’re called in French. I ordered “un croissant s’il vous plait” and although it took the bakery owner a second, he finally understood what I meant. The croissant was literally the best thing I had ever tasted in my life. I know everyone always says French food is better than everywhere else, and going from my first experience with it, I knew they were right. It practically melted in my mouth! I was halfway down the street when I finished it, and actually turned back and went to buy another one, it was that good. I’m going to have to be careful when I’m here, or I’m going to lose my figure completely I warned myself as I devoured my second croissant of the day.
Next I went to the grocery store and bought some food to take back to my apartment. Much to my chagrin, I found that with my basic French lessons and a dictionary on my phone I was able to figure out what all the food was, but the people of France definitely didn’t understand my French. As soon as I said two words to anyone they would try to speak with me in English. Was it really that obvious that my French was so bad? I realized that I was going to have to do a lot more work with the language than I originally thought.
Even though I still had about two weeks before the next semester started, I almost immediately set about doing all the touristy things. I visited the Eiffel Tower, getting an amazing view over Paris, and the Louvre, which housed collections of things I couldn’t even fathom existing. Even though I was a marketing major, I always had a love for the arts in my heart. I took an art history class in high school, and found I had an absolute passion for it. Seeing all of these paintings in person that I’d seen so often in books, analyzed in print many a time, it was unbelievable for me. Art was an escape from my life, analyzing it was like analyzing the past and seeing that people then weren’t that different from us now. I wished I could have majored in Art History, but I knew the job prospects were slim, so instead it remained a hobby. For the first time in months I actually went entire days without thinking about Mike once. Being here in Paris, being in this city, made me feel that all my other problems back home weren’t really problems at all. The city felt so liberating, so free, and even though I couldn’t speak with anyone (although I did try) I actually felt extremely close to the French people.
The first week of January my new classes started. They were in English, mainly comprised of international students like myself and of French students who had been taking English immersion classes since kindergarten. I almost instantly became friends with Claire and Noelle, two girls who were assigned to my group assignment in a marketing course. They wanted to know all about America, and in exchange they helped me with my pronunciation of French words.
“You have to just be a bit assertive with the French people,” Claire told me one day. “A lot of them, when they hear you speak, they want to practice their English, without realizing that you would like to practice your French, so you just have to keep trying and they will understand.”
I thanked them both for the help. I found that despite the stereotype, some of the French people I met were extremely helpful in allowing me to practice the language. The owner of the boulangerie where I bought my bread and pastries always helped me to pronounce the names of new breads I tried to order, or told me the total of my order slowly and then had me repeat it. Numbers were actually getting to be my strong suit. I really liked the city, and so far, despite a few hiccups, nothing bad had happened.
It’s not like I’d expected to be kidnapped in the street or anything like that, it was just that I had imagined something bad would happen to me eventually. I’d never left the country before, and I didn’t expect to be a part of some international horror story or anything, but I thought I’d screw something up at some point.
It finally happened when Noelle and I were visiting Notre Dame. It was snowing, and Noelle wanted a photo of her in the snow in front of the church, her arms held out. I took her phone and stepped backwards to take the photo. The church was so huge though that I had to keep stepping back, until I felt my leg hitting something. I turned around to see what I’d hit and lost my balance, landing right in the middle of the display of one of those street vendors selling little souvenirs of Paris... Eiffel Tower key chains, snow globes, that sort of thing.
There was a crash and a boom and I found myself on the ground, pain coursing through my leg. I must have twisted my ankle on the way down,
because all I could feel was fire running through my foot, like it was on fire. Noelle came rushing over to help me up as people crowded around. All of a sudden, I heard a gush of yelling, and a second later realized it was directed at me.
I stared at the man who was doing the yelling, not understanding a word of what he was saying. Noelle was helping me struggle to my feet, and I put my hands up to apologize.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, je suis day-zo-lay” I tried to tell him in French, but the man continued to yell at me, gesticulating wildly as a crowd around us began to form.
I didn’t know what to do, and looked at Noelle, who looked just as terrified as I was. She begged the man to stop, I understood “arretez”, asking the man to stop yelling at us, but it didn’t seem to me that anything was helping.
All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a large man stepped out next to Noelle and I. He was tall, with broad shoulders. He was at least 15 years older than me, with the slightest tinge of gray in his brown hair, but his muscular body still made him very intimidating. Noelle and I clutched each other but we quickly realized that this man was defending us. He yelled at the vendor, and while I don’t know what was said I quickly understood the gist of it, and the vendor grabbed his things and left.
The man turned to Noelle and I.
“I hope you ladies did not get too much of a fright,” he told us in somewhat accented English. I shook my head.
“No, thank you. We are fine thanks to you. Thank you. How can we ever repay you?”
“Well, for one thing you can let me have the pleasure of buying a beautiful American woman a cup of coffee.”
Noelle began to giggle and a blush crept up her face. As for myself, I didn’t really know what to do. This stranger, this man that I didn’t know at all had just invited me out for coffee. This was the opposite of what I wanted to do in France. I didn’t want to get to know any guys, I just wanted to enjoy this time and not have to worry about my feelings for boys. Still, Noelle was nudging me along, and a part of me felt that I really should go with the man. After all, he had just rescued us from the screaming mad man whose display table I had run into. The least I could do was have a cup of coffee with him. What was the harm in that?
“I promise I won’t take too much of your time young lady, if you would be so kind as to join me,” the man said again. I nodded.
“All right, let’s go have coffee then,” I replied, promising Noelle that I would call her as soon as we were done. She giggled and nodded and then ran off, leaving me with this stranger by myself. I had to admit, when I got a closer look at him, he actually was pretty hot for an older guy. I had never dated anybody much older than myself of course, and had never even considered it, but this man made me ponder the wisdom of my life choices. The tinge of gray in his brown hair gave him an air of sophistication, but wrinkles had not yet hit the face with high cheekbones and a smile that would make the Mona Lisa jealous.
“Je m’appelles Jacques” the man told me as he led me slowly towards a small Café across the bridge from Notre Dame, my ankle still hurting. I could tell from every step that I was getting better though, and I quickly realized I just needed to walk off the pain, it wasn’t going to be anything important.
“Et moi Sophie” I replied, always happy to practice my French.
“But you speak français very well” Jacques replied, much to my pleasure. “You are Americaine, are you not?”
“I am, yes. From San Francisco.”
“Ah, California. Yes, it is a beautiful area you come from.”
“Have you been?”
“A few times yes. It was quite a long time ago, I have not been back in years. But alas, the beaches are beautiful in which to photograph.”
“You are a photographer?” I asked, finding that despite my initial reservations, Jacques was actually quite easy to talk to.
“Yes, I shoot fashion. I find clothing to be beautiful, and I shoot whatever I can find. La beauté, it interests me much.”
I quickly found that I was fascinated by this man, even the way he inserted multiple French words into our conversation, it felt so exactly like everything I thought the French people would be. We arrived at a cafe along the Seine, and Jacques took my coat and placed it behind my chair for me. He was incredibly charming. The perfect image of a gentleman, as we waited for the waitress to come by we continued our conversation.
“So how long have you been in Paris for?” he asked.
“Only a few weeks so far. I’m only here for a semester, I’ll be leaving in the summer.”
“Well, Paris is a beautiful city for you to discover. It is your first time outside of Californie, is it not?”
“It is, yes. Is it that obvious?”
“No, not very much. I simply had a guess. But do not mind the man that yelled at you, do not let him ruin your enjoyment of this beautiful city.”
“Oh absolutely not. Thank you again for coming in rescuing us from him. I don’t know what he was yelling, and my foot was in quite a bit of pain.”
“Does it still hurt?”
I shook my head. “No, walking along the path has made it feel a lot better. I think I just needed to walk it off.”
“Ah good. So you do not need to see a doctor?”
“No, I don’t think so but thank you. My ankle will be fine.”
I had never expected that I was going to enjoy myself this much with Jacques the photographer. He told me stories of when he traveled the world, photographing various celebrities for magazines, the strange places in which he held a fashion shoot, including in far northern Norway where he and his model were both knee deep in the frigid waters of the Arctic Ocean to get perfect images inside a fjord. He had traveled the world, all paid on a company dime, and made quite a name for himself by all accounts. I listened with interest, but he always brought the conversation back around to me. He wanted to know all about me, all about America, and I told him everything that I could.
Noelle finally texted me to see if I was still okay, and that was when I realized how long I had spent in the coffee shop with Jacques. I started as I realized the time, and mentioned that I had to go.
“Thank you for the coffee,” I smiled as I got up, grabbing my coat.
“It was absolutely my pleasure,” Jacques replied, smiling as he watched me get up. “Enjoy your semester in the city.”
I thanked him and waved as I left, heading back into the cold snowy day, back to the church where was going to meet Noelle. Despite the cold outside, my body was warmer than ever. I didn’t understand it, why did I have such a reaction to a guy like that? I mean, it wasn’t as though I was desperate for him, but I definitely felt a warmth, a desire that I hadn’t felt in quite a while. Maybe this was just my body not used to not having Mike around.
When we got back to the church Noelle wanted to know everything that had happened. I told her all about the conversation we had in the coffee shop, and she was ecstatic.
“Are you going to see him again?” she asked.
“No, are you crazy?”
“But why not? He’s pretty good-looking, and he’s very nice. He saved us from that man after all.”
“I don’t know. He’s not my type. I’m not really looking for a boyfriend right now.”
“You should always be looking for a boyfriend,” Noelle scolded, and I couldn’t help but be reminded of Clara.
When I got home that night I got undressed and had a hot shower. Was Noelle right? Should I have asked him for his phone number, or to see him again? A part of me didn’t want to, the part of me that had sworn off men and decided that I was coming to Paris without any sort of intention to form relationships with any man, but another part of me did want to see Jacques again.
Oh well, it’s too late now anyway, he’s gone somewhere in Paris and in the city this size there’s basically no way you’re ever going to run to him again I thought as I crawled into bed.
I had to admit, I was pretty giddy with excitement, even hours later.
Jacques made me feel like a Princess, he was so charming and it actually felt good to be so doted on by someone like that. I fell asleep, starting to regret the fact that I knew I was never going to see him again.
Chapter Five
A week passed, and despite my best efforts I just couldn’t get Jacques out of my head. I knew I was never going to see him again, it was just a fun thing to do one afternoon. Was I really so desperate for a boyfriend that one guy asking me out for a single coffee was driving me this crazy? It couldn’t be, especially not when I’d sworn off men for this whole trip. I refused to believe it.
I had to admit though, when Claire and Noelle teased me about him for the next few days, I enjoyed feeling like the center of attention for a few minutes. After all, it happened to me so rarely, I figured I might as well enjoy it while it lasted. I got to play the part of the popular girl who had guys falling for her for the first time in my life. I mean, how often does it happen that a stranger wants to buy you a single coffee, after rescuing you from a crazy French person screaming at you? That’s the sort of thing that happens in movies, not real life, and yet it had happened to me.
The weekend after the initial encounter, I was walking through the grounds of the University. There was a garden at the back of one of the main buildings which I enjoyed walking through on my way back to my apartment. Even though it was still the middle of winter, there were a number of shrubs and grasses and trees which still made it extremely pleasant to walk through. A soft layer of snow covered the plants, and as I looked up at the sky and saw the foreboding gray clouds, I was pretty sure that layer was going to get a little bit heavier tonight.
Still, it wasn’t incredibly cold out, not compared to other days (although compared to the weather in San Francisco in the winter it was always freezing, but I got used to it quickly). I strolled slowly through the garden, enjoying the view of the people as they went about their daily lives. Suddenly, I stopped. I did a double take. In a corner, by an imitation Greek statue (or maybe it was real, you can never know for sure in Paris), was a gorgeous woman in a black lace dress. A veil covered half her face, her lips were painted ruby red and her stilettos were at least 4 inches high. She was absolutely beautiful as she posed by the statue, but it wasn’t her that I was looking at.
