He poured me a glass of red wine and led me over to his miniature kitchen table to have a seat. He had made a dish of linguini, fresh tomatoes and mozzarella, a colorful salad and cheesy garlic bread. I was impressed. Most men had no idea what they were doing in the kitchen.
“This looks delicious,” I said as I took in the smell of the meal. “I love Italian food.”
“You do? You like zee, euh, pasta? I am so happy because I did not know what you liked, but I thought to myself today, this . . . this will be good.” He raised his glass and clinked it with mine as he flashed a warm smile my way. He was such a sweet guy, not at all cocky or pretentious. I couldn’t have asked for a better rebound after my broken engagement disaster.
“So, Charlotte, you have lived in France before?”
“Yeah, I lived with a host family in Lyon for a semester in college.”
“Really? I have family in Lyon. It is beautiful there, is it not?”
“I loved every minute of it. I can’t wait to go back and visit this year . . . but I’m not sure when I’ll be able to go. This whole being a poor student thing doesn’t really lend to traveling around Europe.”
“I know. I am a poor student too. I’m getting my master’s degree in education right now. I want to be a teacher, like you. That is the only reason why I live here in the dorm.”
“You’ll love teaching, and I’m sure you’ll be really great at it. I did think you looked a little old to be living in a dorm though,” I poked at him.
“Hey, hey. Well, yes, I guess I am kind of old.”
“How old are you?” I asked as I savored a bite of linguini and basil.
“I am twenty-nine. I will be thirty in March. And you?”
“Haven’t you learned that rule? You can never ask a woman how old she is.”
“That is a silly rule. Come on, tell me.”
“I know, I’m just kidding. I think it’s silly too. I’m twenty-five.”
“You are so young. Only twenty-five?”
“What, did you think I was a lot older or something?”
“No, no, it’s just that life was so different at twenty-five.” Luc stared off in the distance for a second.
“What were you doing when you were twenty-five?” I asked him, curious to find out what he was thinking about.
“Euh . . . well, I was living in a nice apartment in the 6th arrondissement, working in finance, and making a lot of good money.”
“Sounds like fun. I bet you were going out a lot too—probably a heart-breaker,” I flirted as I took a sip of my plum-flavored wine.
“Actually no, that was not the case.” Luc shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“No?” I was curious to see where this was heading.
“No, I was married.”
Now, there’s a conversation stopper. I wasn’t sure what to say to that. But, of course, being a girl, I wanted to know the whole story.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes.” Luc’s eyes darted around the room avoiding my glance.
“Did . . . are you . . .still married?” I thought I’d throw that question out there just in case.
“Mais, non. Of course not.”
Of course not, because all marriages end in divorce, that’s why.
“Right. So, how long have you been on your own?”
Luc got up from the table to grab the bottle of wine. “Un peu plus?”
“Sure, thank you.”
“Enough about me. How do you like Paris?” he asked as he filled up my glass. Guess he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
It didn’t look like I’d be getting any more juicy information out of Luc for the night. Even though I wanted to know every little detail (like who is your ex-wife? Where does she live? Why did you get a divorce? Was it your fault or hers?), I had to remind myself that I wasn’t here to get involved with him. I was here to date and have fun. So, just because my instinct was to grill him (or to run for the hills), I relaxed back in my chair, enjoyed my second glass of wine, and continued our discussion.
“It’s been a little hard adjusting, but I think I’m really going to like—”
Luc’s phone interrupted me. He checked the number on the screen, scrunched up his eyebrows exactly as he had done the other night at the bar, and said “Excuse-moi Charlotte, I have to answer this.” He bolted out into the hallway, leaving me alone in his room.
What in the hell was going on with this dude? First he tells me that he used to be married, then he jets out for another mysterious phone call. I wondered if he was, in fact, single?
I surveyed the room to see if I could find any evidence of another woman. It was totally fine with me if he was seeing other people since I was on a strict no-relationship policy, but I was annoyed that he needed to take calls while we were having a nice dinner. I walked around his room looking for clues, but found nothing. Maybe he wasn’t talking to another woman, but then why couldn’t he take the call in here? Or better yet, hit the “ignore” button and call back later?
After a few minutes, I inched closer to the door to see if I could hear him talking in the hallway. I heard his muffled voice speaking quickly in French, and he didn’t sound happy. I couldn’t make out what he was saying though, and I didn’t want to wait at the door like a crazy woman in case he came back in.
Ten minutes later, Luc resurfaced with an exasperated look on his face.
“Is everything okay?” I asked him as he reached for his wine glass and took a huge gulp.
“Yes, yes, everything is fine,” he said unconvincingly.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, everything is fine,” he said more forcefully this time. “But I have to go.”
“You have to go?”
“Yes, I am sorry. I have to leave now. But thank you for coming to dinner. I hope you liked the pasta. We can talk more next time.”
I hadn’t even finished my pasta. I wondered if he’d let me take it in a to-go box.
“Oh . . . okay,” I responded as I began clearing the plates off the table.
“It’s okay, I will clean later. I really have to go.”
“Sorry, okay. Well, thanks for dinner. I guess I’ll see you around.”
Luc opened the door for me, and instead of a long night of mind-blowing French sex, he gave me two bisous on the cheeks and ushered me out.
Back in my room, I plopped down on my bed in confusion. This was exactly why I would not get hung up him or any other man.
Nine
lundi, le 4 octobre
Nothing goes better with sex than a hot French man feeding you chocolate.
On Monday I had my first class at the Sorbonne. Even though I had studied at a French university in Lyon during my semester of study abroad, Georgetown had put the program together, so I’d had a team of people helping me navigate through the disorganized French university system.
Today though, my stomach knotted up at the thought of going to a foreign university totally alone. No one was here to guide me through my study abroad experience this time around . . . well, except for Madame Rousseau, and I wasn’t sure how much help she was going to be after I’d thoroughly pissed her off.
My palms were sweaty and my heart pounded as I exited the RER train at the Luxembourg stop and headed north on boulevard St. Michel. I was set to take courses at the Université de la Sorbonne Nouvelle, Paris III, in their Enseignement du FLE (Français Langue Etrangère) program, which was centered on learning how to teach French as a foreign language. There are tons of universities scattered around Paris, but this one is in a prime location. Situated between the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon in the 5th arrondissement, it’s just a short walk away from the Seine and Notre Dame Cathedral and only a few blocks from the wild bar that Lexi had taken me to on Friday night.
I took a right onto rue Soufflot, the same street I’d taken on my way to the bar, but found the mood in the Latin Quarter to be much different in the daytime. Professionals and students
wound through the streets with newspapers and baguettes tucked under their arms. Gone were the aggressive groups of French guys, flirting with every girl that walked past. Parisians sat alone at sidewalk cafés, sipping their tiny cups of French espresso and nibbling on fluffy croissants.
As I passed by a boulangerie and breathed in the sweet smell of freshly baked French bread, I tilted my head up to the blue, fall skies and felt myself calm down. I was in Paris, the most beautiful city in the world, on my way to do what I’d been dreaming about doing for so long. It was time to let the nervousness go and enjoy the moment.
I continued toward the massive Panthéon building, then turned left down rue Saint-Jacques. A couple of short blocks down the street, I found two armed police officers guarding the entrance to the department where I was supposed to take all of my courses. At least I thought this was my department. What was with the huge guns?
I double-checked the sheet of paper where I’d jotted down the address. 46 rue Saint-Jacques. This was it. I smiled as I approached the guards.
“Carte d’étudiant, s’il vous plait,” the shorter one stated with a blank expression on his face.
They wanted me to show them my student ID card for the Sorbonne, but there was one tiny glitch. I didn’t have one yet. And how would I get one if they wouldn’t let me into the building in the first place?
I rummaged through my bag and pulled out my DC driver’s license.
The taller guard eyed it suspiciously. “Vous n’avez pas votre carte d’étudiant?”
“Pas encore. Je suis désolée, Monsieur,” I responded.
After apologizing and letting them know that I didn’t have one yet, I smiled my sweetest, most innocent smile, and the straight-faced police officers let me pass. Whew.
As I wound my way up three rickety flights of stairs, I thought back to my study abroad days in Lyon. There had never been armed officers guarding the doorways at the universities there. How bizarre.
I peeked into the classroom and was relieved to see that I was the first one to arrive. I took a seat at one of the long, wooden tables, and as I was pulling my notebook out of my bag, a super skinny girl with shoulder-length, light brown hair and big green eyes walked into the room and sat down next to me. She glanced over, giving me a shaky smile.
“Bonjour,” I said, smiling warmly. “Je m’appelle Charlotte, et vous?”
“Je suis Fiona . . . Do you speak English by any chance?” she asked in a strong British accent.
“Yeah—”
“Oh thank God!” The tension left her face as she breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
“I’m really nervous, are you?” I asked Fiona, feeling immediately comfortable with her.
“Yes!” she whispered as her eyes darted around the classroom. “I just got to Paris last week and I’m here all alone, and I was totally freaked out about coming to this class by myself.”
“I was too,” I commiserated. “I’ve studied in France before, but that was with my study abroad program in college, so I was with a bunch of friends. I’ve never done this on my own.”
“Same here. Are you taking all FLE courses here this semester?”
“Yeah, I am. I taught French for the past few years at a high school in DC, but I just wanted to advance a little, you know?”
“Definitely. I taught for about two years out of university, then went back to get my Master’s in French and had the option of coming over here to take some classes that will count toward my degree. But no one else in my program ended up coming over at the same time as me, so I’m totally alone here.”
“At least we have each other now,” I said. “Do you want to grab a coffee after class?”
“Sure, sounds great.” Fiona smiled back as the professor entered the room and started class. “Here we go,” she said, giggling a little under her breath.
The class had filled up with what seemed to be a mix of French students (I could tell they were French when they pulled out their nifty pencil cases), a few English speakers, and other students from all different countries. I started to relax. This is what I had wanted to do, and I was finally here doing it. Screw Jeff. I didn’t need him here to have a good time.
The professor was a petite French woman who spoke slowly and deliberately. She seemed nice but stern, and she didn’t waste any time getting down to business. I could tell I was going to like her class a lot.
Fiona and I spent the majority of the class scribbling down notes like crazy, which made the hours whiz by. I understood everything the professor said, which made me relax even more. Teaching French at the high school level didn’t necessarily mean that I was sharpening my advanced speaking and listening skills on a daily basis. I was teaching a lot of “hello, my name is, how are you, where are you from?” type stuff. So, it was comforting to realize that I hadn’t totally lost my ability to understand what was going on in an advanced French class.
After class, Fiona and I strolled back over to boulevard St. Michel and took a seat at a quaint little café called Paul.
“Un café, et un pain au chocolat s’il vous plait,” I ordered.
“Un pain au chocolat et un café pour moi aussi,” Fiona added.
“Oh man, gotta love the pain au chocolat!” I let out a giggle.
“Seriously, I haven’t stopped eating them since I got here,” Fiona said as she relaxed back in her seat.
“So, you’re from England, right?” I asked her.
“Mmhmm. Liverpool originally, then moved to London for uni. I taught for a few years at a dreadful high school in the city, then got dumped by my boyfriend of five years for another woman, and that’s when I realized my life was total and complete shit. So, I quit my job and went back to school for my Master’s. Life’s still been crap without him, but I’m hoping Paris will be better. God, you didn’t even ask all that, did you? You just wanted to know if I was from England, so to answer your question, yes, I am.” Fiona’s cheeks blushed as she let out a nervous laugh.
“Don’t worry. I completely understand.” I briefly filled Fiona in on the online dating debacle.
“Oh God, that’s awful. I can’t believe that all just happened to you last week. Andrew broke up with me a year ago and I’m still a pathetic mess. I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling.”
“Yeah, sad, pathetic and pissed off pretty much sums it up. But I’m keeping a blog to reach out to other women who are going through the same thing.” I was eager to change the subject—Jeff didn’t deserve any more of my attention.
“Sounds like something I should read. I haven’t had the energy to even go on a date since the bastard dumped me. Even though he was awful, I always find myself comparing everyone to him.”
“We’re going to have to get you back out there. I just met another girl here, Lexi, and we had a lot of fun going out last weekend, plus we met some pretty cute guys. You’ll have to come out with us soon.”
“I’m not too big on the bar scene . . . but yeah, I guess I do need to get out and meet some people. It’d be a shame to come to Paris and keep my head in the books the whole time.” Fiona’s shoulders relaxed as she gave me a warm smile.
She definitely needed to read my blog. I made a mental note to send her the link later that night. After a year, she was still hung up on her ex. So help me God if I was still pining over Jeff in a year.
We sipped our cafés together and devoured our buttery croissants filled with melted, dark chocolate while we chatted some more. After talking with Fiona, it became clear that she was much more innocent and reserved than me or Lexi in the man department, but she was sweet and supportive. I definitely empathized with her on the whole break-up issue. Granted, we seemed to have different coping methods, but we both understood what it felt like to get our hearts broken, and that made for a strong connection.
“Do you have any plans this afternoon?” I asked her.
“No, not really. You’re the first person I’ve met here, so my social life is pretty non-existent at t
his point,” she joked.
“Do you want to take a stroll around the city? I haven’t explored at all since I got in last week. Between adjusting to the time zone, trying to get over my breakup, and going out, I haven’t made any time for it.”
“That sounds great. Where to?”
“Want to walk down the river for a bit?”
“Perfect.”
As we headed up boulevard St. Michel toward the Seine, we ended up at Place St. Michel, where Luc and I had gotten off the train on my first night in Paris. I spotted the yellow awnings of the Gibert Jeune bookstores again while delicious aromas of cheese, bread, chocolate and coffee wafted out of the crowded sidewalk cafés. We took a left, dodged the never-ending groups of fanny-pack sporting tourists, and headed down the Quai des Grands Augustins, taking in the view of the sun beating down on the sparkling river and passing by one of the famous bridges in Paris, the Pont Neuf.
We continued along the quai for a little while, chatting the whole time, and soon reached the Pont des Arts, a delightful little pedestrian bridge that stretches across the Seine and leads to the Louvre.
“God, I love it here,” Fiona said as we strolled along the bridge, admiring the artwork on display. “I mean, where else in the world could we admire outdoor art after stuffing ourselves with chocolate-filled croissants?”
“Nowhere,” I responded.
And that’s when it hit me—I was in Paris. Paris!
I had wanted to move back to France for so long, and I was finally here. When I’d arrived the week before, I was so afraid that all I would have the energy to do was to hole up in my room and cry over Jeff. What would’ve even been the point of coming here if I’d continued on that pathetic streak? My stroll around Paris that afternoon made me remember why I loved France so much and why this was the right decision—no matter how distraught I was over my broken engagement.
Sleeping with Paris Page 7
