Daring Chloe

by Walker, Laura Jensen

  “If you were listening to your audio guide instead of yakking, you’d know that’s the Musée Rodin,” Tess said. “And I don’t know about you, but that’s a must-see for me. Maybe tomorrow, along with the Louvre, or the Musée d’Orsay.”

  “Sounds good.” I glanced around the group. “That’s a definite for everyone, right?”

  “As long as I get time to shop,” Kailyn said.

  Becca rolled her eyes and then turned to Tess. “Are you seriously planning to do two museums in one day?”

  “Mais oui.”

  “Not sure if I can hang with that or not.”

  “Sure you can.” I patted her arm. “It’s part of the adventure. We’ve only got seven days to see some of the most amazing art in the world, and some of those days will be tied up with cooking. So we’ll need to double up on museums.”

  “Okay, but I reserve the right to bail if I get bored.”

  “Bored? In Paris?” Tess clasped her hand to her heart. “C’est impossible.”

  “Ooh, speaking of art, check out that bridge with stone pillars and the gold-winged horses at the top.” Paige pointed.

  “That’s the Pont Alexandre III. Most people consider it the most beautiful bridge in Paris.”

  “They got that right.” Annette released a low whistle.

  Everything was beautiful in Paris. I could hardly take it all in.

  None of us could. We were like hungry kids with our faces pressed to the window of a candy store.

  “Look at that building!”

  “And that one.”

  “This one’s really cool.”

  Just then the little tour guide voice in my ear said we were turning onto the Champs-Elysées. Becca and I swiveled our heads around to catch sight of the celebrated Arc de Triomphe at the far end of the world-renowned boulevard. “Ah. ‘There is no limit to Paris,’ ” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Victor Hugo, Les Misérables.”

  “Of course. What was I thinking? But wait, we’re going away from the Arc.”

  “We’ll catch it all on the way back, don’t worry,” Tess assured me.

  A tour bus crept by, then another, passing within inches of my elbow propped on the rail. I yanked my arm inside. As we entered the Place de la Concorde, the traffic grew congested and chaotic with tour buses, taxis, and cars weaving crazily around each other.

  “I’m sure glad I’m not driving,” Annette said.

  Kailyn flashed her perfect white teeth. “Aren’t we all?” She leaned forward in her seat. “Hey, check out the killer fountain! That’s the one we saw in The Devil Wears Prada. Remember? Love it!”

  We all lapped up the sight of the graceful green-and-gold fountain arcing water.

  Tess pointed out the Egyptian obelisk nearby and told us that during the French Revolution that’s where the guillotine was set up — the guillotine where Marie Antoinette, Louis XVI, and so many others were beheaded in what was known as the Reign of Terror.

  Kailyn loosened the scarf around her neck.

  “She should never have said ‘Let them eat cake.’ ”

  Paige tossed a stick of gum at Becca.

  A taxi honked its horn and whizzed by as our bus continued its route. Annette yawned and covered her mouth. “Sorry. I think the jet lag’s startin’ to catch up to me. Do you want to go back to the hotel and catch a nap before dinner?”

  “No!” we all chorused.

  “Guess I’m outvoted,” Annette said dryly. “I can always get a nap later.”

  “That’s the spirit, Mom. I knew you could hang.”

  “I’m not so sure I can.” Paige slouched in her seat and released a yawn.

  “Stop it right now.” I shook my finger at her and adopted a threatening tone. “You’re going to create a yawn domino effect.”

  “Here’s a little something that might wake you up,” Tess said as the bus drove through an archway in the middle of a building. Beyond the archway was a ring of buildings surrounding a huge courtyard. “Musée de Louvre.”

  “That’s the Louvre?” Becca gaped. “It’s huge.”

  Paige sat up straight. “To hold over 300,000 pieces of art, it has to be.”

  “When I came here over thirty years ago, my favorite pieces — aside from Winged Victory — were all the Impressionists,” Annette said. “But they’re not here anymore.”

  “How come?” Becca asked.

  “Because in the eighties, the Musée d’Orsay was opened, and the entire Impressionist collection moved there,” Tess explained. “Don’t worry, Annette. You’ll see your Impressionists again. And I think you’ll like their new setting even more.”

  “What’s up with the glass pyramid thingie?” Kai-lyn pointed. “It doesn’t look like it belongs with all the old buildings.”

  Tess gave a wry smile. “There are many Parisians who’d agree with you. It was quite the controversy when it was built a couple decades ago.”

  “Actually, I like the pyramid,” I said. “Since it’s glass, it doesn’t block the stone buildings, and actually draws the eye in even more.”

  For once, a merger between the old and the new worked.

  “Oh my!”

  “What?” Tess shot me a look of concern. “Are you okay?”

  “Notre Dame,” I breathed. “We have to get out here.” I shot from my seat as the bus made one of its frequent stops so the tourists could hop on and off. No way could I remain sitting. Not when the world’s most famous cathedral that I’d read about in Victor Hugo’s Hunchback was right there in front of me.

  I grabbed my backpack and sprinted for the stairs.

  “Hang on. Wait for us.”

  “Oomph.” Becca ran into me on the sidewalk in front of the bus where I was standing, staring. “What are you waiting for? Come on.”

  “Just a sec. I want to drink it all in. We’re here.” I closed my eyes. “We’re really here.”

  “Well, almost, anyway.” Annette nudged me. “Let’s get closer.”

  “It’s so huge,” Kailyn said as we crossed the street to the courtyard.

  “Much bigger than it looks in the movies.” Paige’s mouth hung open. “Look. Those people are dwarfed by the doorways.”

  “And the archway doors are only the bottom third of the building,” Tess informed us.

  “There’s something in front of that round stained glass window.” Kailyn pointed. “What is that?”

  “Statues of the Virgin Mary,” Tess said. “Notre Dame means ‘Our Lady.’ ”

  “And then there are the bell towers,” Becca’s voice said behind me.

  Paige began laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked as we all turned around.

  My roommate had wadded her scarf into a ball and shoved it underneath her jacket, high up on one shoulder. “Sanctuary!” Becca said, a little too loudly as she started limping, or rather, waddling, across the courtyard toward the cathedral steps.

  Tess sighed. “You can dress her up, but you can’t take her out.”

  As we walked through the massive doors into Notre Dame, a small group of people in front of us stopped to make the sign of the cross.

  They might be pilgrims, visitors coming to visit this holy place. Annette and Kailyn made the sign of the cross too. More pilgrims.

  We moved to the middle part of the dark, massive church — the nave, as Tess called it. It was strangely empty. All the windows were magnificent stained glass, but the arched panels couldn’t match the round “rose” windows. The light filtering in through the stained glass onto the slab floor created a dappled, otherwordly feeling.

  Even Becca was visibly moved.

  “Let’s just sit here for a few minutes,” Annette whispered.

  “Okay, but not too long,” Tess cautioned. “It will make it difficult to get our jet-lagged selves back up again.”

  After lingering a little longer in the sanctuary, we met up outside the cathedral. Tess led us around to a charming tree-lined park with several benche
s and a great view of the back side of the cathedral.

  “Perfect.” Annette plopped down on a bench.

  “Perfectly cold.” Kailyn shivered. “I’m ready for a coffee, but I need to rest first.”

  “Ditto.” I slouched between Paige and Annette.

  Even though we were cold, it was wonderful to sit and people watch. And what a backdrop. In contrast to the tall rectangular front of Notre Dame, the back was all curves and angles — the tall steeple, the round roof, and all of the arches.

  “Great view of the flying buttresses,” Tess said.

  “Where?” Kailyn scanned the sky. “I’ve always wanted to see a flying buttress.”

  “Pardon?” Paige asked.

  “I heard about them in a Disney movie and hoped we’d get to see one.”

  “There they are.” Tess pointed. “Buttresses are supports that hold up the walls.”

  “Oh.” Kailyn blushed. “I always thought they were like bats or something.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” Annette said. “I thought we were going to see some nice Parisian butts flyin’ through the air.”

  Back on the bus again after our petit cafés, Paris was a blur. As much as I wanted to pay attention, jet lag was winning the battle.

  For all of us.

  We walked back to our hotel after the bus dropped us off at the Eiffel Tower in the early evening and agreed to freshen up and change for dinner. Once we got to the hotel lobby, though, Annette and Kailyn could barely keep their eyes open.

  Annette yawned. “I may just skip dinner and go straight to bed.”

  “You can’t miss dinner out your first night in Paris!” Foodie Paige licked her lips. “This is what I’ve been waiting for.”

  “Well, if we leave right now,” Annette said, “I can probably keep my eyes open for another half hour. Tops.”

  “Me too.” Kailyn stifled a yawn.

  I checked my watch, which I’d set to Paris time when our airplane landed. It was a few minutes after five. Behind me, I could hear Arnaud informing Becca that most restaurants didn’t start serving dinner until seven.

  “Two more hours? I’ll be fast asleep by then. Sorry, girls.” Annette punched the elevator button. “I’m way too exhausted to eat, anyway.” She sent us a tired smile. “See, that French diet’s already startin’ to work.”

  The door opened, and Annette and Kailyn stumbled wearily into the narrow space.

  I was strongly tempted to follow their lead, but my grumbling stomach and the rest of the group wouldn’t let me.

  Two hours later, Paige and I were splitting an order of to-die-for escargot at a small — as in only four tables — restaurant called Chez Michèle two doors down from the hotel. I could tell Becca was about to break into her “I don’t know how you can eat snails” tirade, so I kicked her under the table.

  Almost gently.

  Our chef, Michèle, who also acted as our server, and probably the dishwasher too, didn’t speak any English, but Tess conversed with her freely in French.

  And Paige and I practiced our few phrases.

  “J’adore escargot,” I said.

  “Merci, et blah, blah, blah . . .” Michèle responded in a rapid torrent of French.

  I shot a helpless look at Tess.

  “She said thank you and asked what you would like for dinner,” Tess translated.

  Since Chez Michèle was a one-woman restaurant, she offered only two choices of plat du jour — the special of the day. Today’s specials were poulet with vegetables and rice and gigot d’agneau.

  Tess and Becca went for the chicken while Paige and I opted for the lamb.

  I closed my eyes in rapture at the first bite. This was not my mother’s Easter lamb with mint jelly.

  Paige bit into her l’agneau and visibly swooned. “Oh my. How did she do that?” She sent an admiring look at our chef. “It just melts in my mouth. The rosemary really adds to it.” She raised another bite to her mouth. “Poor Jenna, missing this. We need to send her postcards.”

  “Yeah, like that will cheer her up.” Becca, who was pretty much inhaling her chicken, took a sip of wine. “Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here. Sorry you’re stuck at home with all your sprouts and tofu while we’re eating like Marie Antoinette.” She dug greedily into her chicken again. “Of course when we all come home fat as pigs, Ms. Aerobics Queen will have the last laugh.”

  “We won’t go home fat,” Tess said. “We’ll walk off everything we eat.”

  “Let’s start tonight by walking up to the top of the Eiffel Tower!”

  “First of all, you can’t walk all the way to the top — only to stage two,” Tess explained. “And secondly, the only walking I’m doing after this is back to the hotel, into the elevator, and then to my room, where I’m going to collapse on the bed.” She opened her purse. “Besides, we need to wait for Kailyn and Annette to go up the tower.”

  “We can go back with them again tomorrow night. Please? ” Becca wheedled. “I really wanted to end my first night in Paris on top of the Eiffel Tower.”

  “I’d never make it.” Tess’s eyes drooped. “I’m ready to fall asleep right now.”

  “Me too,” Paige agreed. “Sorry, Becca.”

  Becca’s face fell.

  “I’ll go with you,” I heard myself offer.

  Was that really my mouth those words came out of? What was I thinking — walking around at night in a strange city alone with Becca the wild and irresponsible, whose grasp on the French language is even more tenuous than mine?

  “Serious?” Becca jumped out of her seat, her eyes snapping with excitement. “Well then, let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

  “Tess, Paige, you’re sure you don’t mind?” I pulled out my wallet. “We’ll definitely go again tomorrow night with the whole group.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.” Tess collected our Euros and paid our chef/waitress/dishwasher. “Merci beaucoup, Madame. C’était très magnifique! ”

  “Merci, Madame.” Paige kissed her foodie fingers. “Très bien.”

  Chef Michèle smiled and said a bunch more words in French.

  “Merci,” I began in my halting French. “L’agneau c’est incroyable.”

  Becca patted her stomach. “Merci. C’est really good. Ooh-la-la.” She tugged on my hand. “Come on, La Tour Eiffel is waiting for us.”

  “Un moment,” Tess said, looking at her watch as she led us out the door.

  We stood in front of the restaurant, exchanging uncertain looks.

  “Okay, now look up.”

  We gasped in unison.

  The Eiffel Tower was lit up like a Christmas tree against the night sky. And not only lit up, but putting on a glorious light show for us, sparkling like diamonds.

  Or thousands of shooting stars.

  Inarticulate sounds came out of my throat. Not words, exactly. There were no words. In that moment, I fell. Hard.

  “It’s like the Fourth of July,” Becca said.

  “Better,” I breathed, staring at what was no longer a famous monument made of metal and iron, but my tower. My beautiful tower.

  “How long does this last?” Paige asked.

  “For ten minutes. Every night, every hour until midnight. Twenty-thousand lights.”

  “Sweet!” Becca urged me forward. “Hurry so we can see it up close and personal.”

  “Bonne nuit,” Tess called after us.

  Twenty minutes later we were atop my tower looking out over the lights of Paris.

  Me.

  On top of the Eiffel Tower.

  Looking at the lights of Paris.

  Does it get any better than this?

  Tess had warned us that the lines to get to the top were often mind-numbingly long, but there were very few tourists waiting in line when we arrived at the base of the tower at nine-thirty.

  They were probably sleeping off their jet lag in a nice warm bed.

  When Becca wanted to climb to the second level though, I put my foot down. “Don’
t push it. I’d probably fall asleep on the third step.” And then, as I stepped off the elevator onto the metal platform of the tower and looked out over this amazing city, for some strange reason, I felt like bursting into song.

  What was up with that? I never sing in public. And especially not to the understated, less-is-more French public. I glanced around. Aside from Becca, there were only about seven or eight people with us on the pinnacle. And none of them were paying any attention to the crazy American girl who was about to make a fool out of herself.

  C’est la vie.

  Something in me needed to sing. Was compelling me to sing. But what? It wasn’t just singing to be singing. Something was drawing me. Tugging at me. I thought about all the Paris songs I knew.

  “Frère Jacques?” Too grade-school.

  “La Vie en Rose?” Too touristy.

  “I Love Paris?” Too peppy.

  Then it came to me. The old Joni Mitchell song about being a free man in Paris. Tess had introduced me to Joni, one of her favorites, when I started college. “Every college student needs to listen to Joni Mitchell,” she said.

  I began to hum, not remembering all the words. Then I started to sing.

  Soft and low. From the top of the Eiffel Tower into the wind.

  Talk about being unfettered and alive.

  22

  When at last she found her voice, it was a hushed voice, the voice she used for church. “Just think, Jamie, Michelangelo himself touched this. Over four hundred years ago.”

  From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler

  Nothing, not even San Francisco’s Legion of Honor had prepared me for this.

  Eager to start our museum exploration, I’d talked the girls into a quick half-hour breakfast of croissants and café crème at a sidewalk café on Rue Cler. Then we caught the Metro to the first of our two museums of the day, the Musée d’Orsay, the beautiful former train station now home to the world’s finest collection of Impressionist art.

  And there I was, standing before the man. The myth. The legend.

  Van Gogh.

  I stared at the thick, frenzied brush strokes of his self-portrait in oil. Kaleidoscopic swirls of a pale turquoise-greenish background almost blended in with the same-colored jacket he wore, save for a dark outline around his back and shoulders. But it was the haunted, almost emaciated face that drew me in. The tense set of his mouth, the red, unkempt hair and beard, the anxious, tortured eyes, and the single ear.