Later we all sat down for dinner. Tonight we had mussels and fries. Of course I tried to sit next to Pierre, but it was like a mad dash to the table. Seriously. He took the head, while me, the two Pennies, Abby and even Max and Kristin acted like we were playing musical chairs and the music had just been turned off, in an attempt to claim his neighboring sides. Abby and the Canadians went left but the Pennies and I went right and ended up in an unfortunate tangle for the seat.
I lost.
Booohooo.
I sat next to Becca instead. She intermittedly talked to me between batting her eyelashes at Harold. Not that I blame her. He is definitely good for a summer fling, if you wanted to go the American route.
Which I don’t. I am not going to waste my one trip away doing something ordinary. And anyway, you would not believe how sexy Pierre could make eating a French fry look. First he’s spear it with his fork, then he’d lift it off his plate, and then he would slowly, oh so carefully, dip the fry into his mouth and then gently bite the tip off with his teeth.
Tommy, on the other hand, who was sitting diagonal from me, kept stealing fries off my plate whenever I wasn’t looking. Which was pretty often, considering I kept ogling Pierre. Tommy had his own plate of fries, so I don’t know why he found it necessary and amusing to take mine.
Even though Pierre spent most of dinner laughing and talking to the ladies who had won the seat tug-of-war (Penny with a Y and ginormous-boobed Abby), he smiled at me twice. Yes, twice. Which I think is an excellent stat, considering. Plus, halfway through the meal, he looked at me and asked, “Lindsay, did you like ze food?”
I did. But I like him even more.
It’s hot here in our room in the hostel. Too hot to sleep. I wish I had brought a thinner sleeping bag. I wish I had taken the bottom bunk.
I wonder Pierre is still sleeping. What are the chances he’s dreaming of me? Maybe I should sneak into the boys’ room and spray my perfume on his pillow. Or, even better, maybe I should spray myself with said perfume. My hair is smelling a bit like eau de feet. Perhaps I should use this extra morning time to find the shower?
An hour later—still really, really early
I am back in my bunk bed. And I might need a shower from the shower. The water pressure was pitiful and the temperature was beyond cold. It kind of felt like someone was holding ice cubes over my head and letting them slowly melt down my back. But I am refreshed! And now it is time to beautify so Pierre will see that I am fabulous and want to grab me in his French arms and kiss me passionately. Must find my guava-colored lip-gloss in my makeup bag. It is my magic weapon. It brings out all the right coloring in my skin and makes my lips look luscious. I think it might be a kissing potion. It looks good on me know matter what I’m wearing, tanned, not tanned, whatever. It totally worked on Adam, my first—and last—boyfriend. We dated last year. I applied it before our first date and we didn’t stop kissing for four months. Until I broke up with him. I was getting too attached to him and it was freaking me out. Better safe than sorry, right?
Okay enough about the past. Time to get out of bed. Maybe I should wake up Joanna with a song. See how she likes it.
Later today
I am standing in Le Louvre. The most popular and amazing museum in the history of museums. Despite the packs of tourists, it is eerily quiet in here. People are speaking in hushed voices, like they’re in a church. Everything is so gold and ornate.
At the moment, I’m desperately trying to get a look at the big cheese herself. The Mona Lisa painting. Are you there, Mona? I can’t tell. Because all I can see are other people’s heads.
I’ve been standing here for ten minutes waiting for some space to clear up, but no go. Wait, wait, wait . . .
I just got a glimpse!
Honestly? She’s not that attractive.
Two hours later. . .
Tommy and I are taking a break. We’re supposed to be walking around for four hours but it’s a little cramped in there, and I keep getting accidentally pushed and stepped on and I started to feel a little claustrophobic and panicked that I would break something on the first real day. It’s not like I break something once a week or anything, but I’ve broken enough bones to know that I’d like to try to stay in one piece if I can. I’ve broken two toes, my index finger, and my right leg (in separate stair, locker, gym-class, and bicycle-related incidents).
Anyway, Tommy wanted to check out the Louvre architecture from outside, and I said I’d go with him. Becca and Harold don’t seem to mind admiring other tourists’ heads. Or maybe they’re admiring each other instead . . . .
I’m lying on the grass, getting some sun. Ah. The air here smells so French. Like a mixture of spice, grass, and cigarette smoke.
Tommy’s around somewhere taking pictures. He has a fancy camera he bought at a garage sale on his street. Unlike all the other cameras on this trip, it’s not digital. He brought two dozen rolls of film and plans on using the closet in his basement as a darkroom.
Now he’s taking pictures of . . . me? No, something behind me. Pigeons?
I wish Pierre would come out here and say something to me in French.
Friday, July 13, 8:00 A.M.
Dear TJ,
We are on the bus, on our way to Versailles. I’ve got my own row today. Becca is sleeping in the seat across from me. She is sleeping because . . . she was up all night playing tongue hockey with Texan Harold! Of course she woke me post-hookup to share all the glorious details. They were talking after dinner, and then she asked him if he wanted to go sit in the garden, and then she kissed him. They started fooling around right on the bench. And then they heard footsteps so they snuck into the women’s toilettes (!!!!) and continued hooking up.
OK, I’ll admit it, I’m jealous. She is having a fling while I am not. Not for lack of trying. But I can barely get two seconds alone with Pierre. I sat next to him during breakfast, but he was absorbed in his café au lait and cigarette. The smoking thing is not such a turn-on, but maybe I could get him to quit. If only he would look at me.
I was wearing the guava and everything!
Perhaps I should start casting a larger fling net. Last night, from our window, I spotted a group of cute boy backpackers hanging out in the garden. I think they were Swiss or Austrian. Maybe I should make friends with them?
11:00 p.m.
Dear TJ,
Joanna is about to turn off the lights, and I’m beyond exhausted, but I want to tell you what happened today. Funny that I say you, as though you are a person and not simply me reading this when I get home, if ever. Although maybe you are my future daughter reading about my magical vacation in France! Hello sweetie, I love you! Maybe I’ve married Pierre and he and I have had French-American love children!
Not. That is the whole point of a fling. A fling is a man you never see again. That’s what makes it exciting. Harmless. Stringless. No one gets hurt if there are no strings attached, right? You kiss, and maybe go to second and/or third base before saying goodbye forever. Perhaps you send perfumed wish-you-were-here postcards in the months that follow but that’s as far as it goes.
Anyway, it’s starting to occur to me that I may have no chance with Pierre. After our trip to Versailles (all green landscaped gardens, statues of angels, and a dizzying Hall of Mirrors), we took a late afternoon/sunset cruise on the river Seine. Tommy was snapping artsy-type photos of the Paris skyline and the grand cathedral of Notre Dame, while Max and Kristin and the rest of the group were busy taking photos of the half-naked people on the quasi-beach. It’s actually a man made strip of sand on the banks of the Seine. And I say half-naked because some of the women were topless. And some of the men were wearing . . . G-string Speedos. Who knew they even made those?
The Pennies thought it was hilarious and kept pointing and ogling.
“What’s the big deal?” Tommy asked, laughing, his camera dangling around his neck.
“Those girls are so immature,” Becca said, wrinkling her forehead in disgust. Earlie
r today she had spotted them twirling their pigtails in Tommy’s direction. Ever since then she had taken to eyeing them with suspicion.
“What’s the big deal?” I asked. “He deserves a fling too, no?”
“Those girls are not worthy of my brother.”
Becca has some major big sister issues. The fact that she’s only four minutes older than Tommy doesn’t faze her. When Janna Jacobs broke up with him last year, Becca accidentally-on-purpose spilled her coke all over Janna’s white linen capris. Tommy was not amused.
So I wasn’t surprised when her next move on the boat was to call Tommy over to us and away from the Pennies.
After the cruise is when things got interesting. Becca and Harold went for “a walk,” and Tommy and I regrouped in the hostel’s courtyard, which is insanely pretty. It has three iron benches, small round tables, and moss growing between the cobblestones. Everything in Paris is so old and charming. I can picture what it was like to live here centuries ago.
Anyway, guess who was in the courtyard? The Swiss/Austrians. Except they aren’t actually Swiss/Austrians, turns out they’re Russians. Whoospies. I would never have had the guts to talk to them on my own, but Tommy plunked himself down in the bench right beside them and began asking them all these questions. There were two of them: Vladimir and Mick. Vlad (that’s what he told us to call him) is the hot one. He has blond hair and ridiculous cheekbones. If I had spotted him in an Abercrombie & Fitch ad, instead of in the courtyard of Les Quatre Saisons, I would not have been surprised. Although Abercrombie & Fitch is pretty American. Maybe a Beneton ad? He and Mick were smoking clove cigarettes and laughing, and they told us about living in Moscow. And then Vlad showed me how to write my name in Russian: Линдсй. Or something like that. Apparently Ruskies have a totally different alphabet. Who knew?
An hour or so later, Becca and Harold joined us and the Russians said goodnight, but the way Vlad held my gaze longer than necessary made me decide that he would be an attainable fling for me to focus on.
“Want to come with us to the Bastille Day parade tomorrow night?” I blurted out.
“Sure,” Vlad said. “We’ll meet you here. To pre-celebrate. At seven.”
After we waved goodbye, Becca started jumping up and down on the bench. “Way to go!”
“Shush, they can still see you,” I said.
But whatever. I have a date! Kind of.
Joanna just turned off the lights. Can’t see in the dark.
A demain!
The Afternoon of Saturday, July 14th
My boobs hurt. I am lying on my back, attempting to write in the air, because I cannot lie on my stomach.
Why, you might ask?
Oh, I’ll get there. First off, Happy Bastille Day. That means it’s France’s Fourth of July.
But back to why my boobs are killing me.
Since we had a free day in honor of the holiday today, Becca and I decided we were going to hit the quasi-beach to get some sun. Pierre and Mike were taking the boys and some of the more athletic girls to play soccer.
We hiked down to the beach. It was kind of weird since it’s in the middle of the city, but cool. We claimed our spot. We spread out our towels. I pulled off my shorts and t-shirt and then looked over at Becca.
Or shall I say, Becca’s boobs. Oh, yeah, there she was, lying on her back, topless, for the world to see.
“What are you doing?” I shrieked.
She gave me a devilish smile. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t talk to you when your things are on display.” Not that she was out of place. Ninety percent of the women out there were topless. And it wasn’t just the twenty-year-old locals. The tourists were topless. The GRANDMOTHERS were topless.
“Oh come on!” she said, laughing. “We’re in France. We must!”
“Er, we?” I crossed my arms in front of my chest.
“Yes, we. Come on, Linds.”
I was about to say no, but then I thought, well, why not? I wanted to be wild this trip, didn’t I? I want to take risks and push myself out of my comfort zone.
And how much would this annoy my mom?
“Just whip it off!” Becca ordered.
Now or never. I had a brief moment of cold feet (or cold boobs), so here’s what I did. I lay on my stomach, and then unclasped the back and slipped that sucker off. And then slowly turned around, my heart pounding. Then I squirted some suntan lotion in my palms, and did my best to smear it on my upper regions. But, come on, was I supposed to rub myself right there, like I was in Girls Gone Wild the Paris edition?
Becca started screaming and clapping, and there we were. Topless.
Honestly? It felt kind of cool. I mean it’s not like my boobs have ever been allowed to see the sun before.
So I tanned. And closed my eyes. And pretended the Seine was the ocean. I was pretty relaxed about the whole thing until IT happened.
“Allo mes filles!”
I opened one eye and then screamed.
Pierre. Back from soccer. Followed by a bunch of the other kids from the trip. Including Harold, Abby and Tommy. The latter who was, thankfully, covering his eyes.
I rushed to flip over onto my stomach and immediately grabbed my shirt for cover. My cheeks as well as other exposed parts of my body, were surely deep red.
I contemplated jumping on one of the passing tour boats.
“Are you covered yet?” Tommy asked, hands still over his eyes.
“Yes,” I squeaked.
“It’s not you I’m worried about,” he said, and I could see he was smiling. “It’s my sister. Gross.”
“Oh, shut up,” Becca said, putting her top back on.
“All ze women are topless in France,” Pierre says. “It’s no good to be ashamed of your body.” Pierre was definitely not ashamed. Like most of his countrymen, and unlike any of the American teen tour boys in their roomy swimming trunks, he was wearing a suit that was only slightly bigger than a Speedo.
For the record, I am NOT ashamed of my body. Or my boobs. I am perfectly happy with my boobs. But that doesn’t mean I want my crush, my best friend’s brother, AND my best friend’s boyfriend to have free cable access to them.
“I’m happy with my body,” Abby said in a singsong voice. And that’s when she untied the straps of her bikini top and tossed it to the ground.
Even I couldn’t help but stare. They. Were. Huge. And perfectly tanned. Apparently this wasn’t her first time setting those babies free in the sun.
Pierre’s jaw dropped.
I might have to give up on Pierre, and focus all my attention on Vlad. There is NO way I can compete.
Anyway, it’s a good thing I put on my top when I did. Why? Because a few minutes longer might have given me first-degree burns. As soon as we returned to the hostel and I stepped into the shower and let the water (the low- pressure-barely-there-water) dribbled onto my left boob, I shrieked in agony. And then noticed that it was bright red. Lobster red. As in, the worst sunburn of my life. Post shower of pain, I gingerly applied aloe vera.
Okay, now I have to get dressed for the parade. Yippee.
No, no, no. I will not let my burnt boobs get me down! I am in France! I will enjoy myself! I have plans with Vlad! There will be fireworks! Tonight is going to be the best night ever!
Sunday morning, July 15th, 2:00 A.M.
OH. MY. GOD. This is a disaster. A GIGANTIC disaster. My life is ruined.
I don’t even know where to start.
Okay, so after we got dressed in our finest (almost finest—I was in too much agony to wear my adorable red strapless sundress, so had to settle for a loose black cotton shirt over leggings instead). I put on the guava and dragged Becca outside to meet the Russians.
“What if Vlad’s sketchy?” Becca asked, “Is it really a good plan to hook up with him? You barely know him.”
“You’ve only known Harold for a few days.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“
He’s American!”
Oh, please. “What is up with you? You’re usually encouraging me to do crazy things.”
“Am I?”
“Um, yeah. I’m in France aren’t I? And have you seen the color of my boobs?”
Anyway, regardless of what Becca thought, the smile Vlad gave me when I stepped outside . . . well, it made me feel quite confident that he would be Mr. Fling. There would be some kissing action tonight, no doubt about it.
There would not, for obvious reasons, be second base action. My second bases were quite furious with me at the moment.
Tommy, freshly showered and sporting a pale brown button down shirt and beige pants, had already joined them, so I sat between them and said, “Hello boys.”
And then I noticed the bottle of cheap Champagne on the table.
“Cheers,” Tommy said and poured me a glass.
“Be careful,” I told him, glancing around the garden. Alcohol was definitely not allowed on the trip.
“There is no drinking age in France,” Vlad said in his cute Russian accent as he took a gulp.
A second later Joanna popped up and we all froze. “I see you,” she said, covering her eyes. “But I’ll pretend I didn’t. Since it’s a holiday.” She wiggled her index finger. “One glass and that’s it.”
A Nice Fling is Hard to Find Page 2
