One Week in Paris

by Roya Carmen

  I eye him suspiciously. “You like to grind my gears, don’t you?”

  He laughs. “Love it.”

  I shake my head. “You’re incorrigible, Oscar Cohen.”

  We stroll to our secret destination. I’m glad I’ve worn a jacket — it’s a chilly night. I’m so glad it’s not raining, since my weather app called for it. I barely notice the beautiful scenery and architecture surrounding us, too consumed with where Oscar is taking me. I’ve always been a curious person, and this is killing me. I’d Google it on my phone, but my travel phone plan is not great. We’ll need to drop by a café for a snack — they all have free wifi.

  We’re holding hands like an old couple. He smiles at me here and then. He looks sexy as sin tonight, dressed in all black, like me.

  “We should stop by for a drink,” I tell him. “I’m parched.”

  “Sure, next place we see.”

  Since we’re walking the streets of Paris, approximately forty-five seconds later, we spot a cozy looking café — blue awning, blue bistro chairs, and not busy at all.

  I welcome the warmth as soon as we step in. I order an iced tea and avocado toast. Avocat sur pain grillé, the menu on the chalkboard says. I’m confused… I thought avocat meant lawyer. Oscar orders a beer and nachos — such a guy.

  As soon as we sit to eat, I eye the wifi password on the board, fish out my phone and get on Google.

  “Were you even thirsty?” Oscar asks. “Was this all a pretext so you could go on your phone?”

  “Sort of,” I admit, staring down at my phone. “I need to Google the 12th arrondissement.”

  He smiles. “We’ll be there soon. Can’t you wait?”

  I peruse the information. Residential neighborhood. Gardens…concert arena, retail chains… restaurants. Is he taking me to a concert? The place de la Bastille is also there, but he knows I’m no history buff. La Cinémathèque Francaise is there… classic movies and archives. Is he taking me to see a classic movie he won’t understand a word of? But he mentioned that there would be walking and cycling and outdoor time.

  I’m still so confused.

  He laughs. “Still can’t figure it out, can you?”

  I scowl at him and bite into my avocado toast.

  38

  FINALLY… AFTER WHAT SEEMS LIKE the longest walk of my life, we enter the Bercy village, and I’m completely awestruck. It’s like we’ve stepped into another time — the 1800s, to be precise. The beautiful courtyard is lined with old row stone houses with pretty terraces. Quite a few people are milling about. I pull out my phone and snap a few pics of the houses and their rustic wooden doors, some painted red. I also take a shoe selfie of my Doc Martens against the cobblestone walkway. This is so steampunk — my ex-boyfriend would love this.

  “We’re here,” he says.

  “I love it,” I tell him. “Are we going to go eat and do a little shopping?”

  He smiles. “Yep. I made reservations at one of the restaurants.” He digs out a piece of paper from his pocket. “But I don’t think we’ll have time for shopping. I have something else planned.”

  I smirk. “Yes, the surprise,” I say, excited.

  “It’s probably best if we don’t shop anyway since we’re both broke,” he jokes.

  “True.”

  The Frog at Bercy has a very industrial feel — steel hanging lights, stone walls, and steel pipes running across opened ceilings. Five huge antique copper beer vats sit at the center of it all.

  It is unlike any restaurant I’ve ever been to. My jaw is on the floor as Mélanie, our hostess, leads us to our table. I smile at Oscar as we sit down. Mélanie hands us our menus. I study the people around us — cool, young hipsters. We fit right in with our black clothing. Oscar’s even wearing his dorky hipster glasses. I tease him about them, but I secretly love them.

  “Nice place,” I tell him. “You did good, buddy.”

  “I thought you’d like it. I know you don’t drink beer, but still.”

  “My ex, Steve, would love this place. He was totally into all that steampunk stuff.”

  He laughs. “So a total nerd, right?”

  “Yeah, but super sweet.”

  “So is that how girls are doing it these days?” he teases. “Talking about exes when they’re on dates?”

  I smile playfully at him. “Oh, are we on a date?”

  He grins. “I’d like to think so. I’m definitely getting lucky later.”

  I shoot him a wink. “We’ll see about that.”

  We both order Moscow Mules and they come in cool copper cups. I’ve never had one, but Oscar insists that I’ll love it. When I venture a first sip, my throat stings and a small cough escapes me. “Wow, spicy… but I like it.”

  “It’s the ginger beer,” he tells me. “Take little sips.”

  I go for a chicken sandwich with fries, and Oscar orders the ribs and sweet potato fries. Greasy and rich food — not usually my fare, but once in a while, I love to indulge.

  I enjoy every single bite, and the conversation flows smoothly, all conflicts and hurt feelings forgotten. I’m still dying to know where we’re going.

  With full stomachs and hearts full of laughs, we make our way to our well-anticipated destination. We walk hand-in-hand again, and Oscar pulls to a stop in front of a stone archway with an imposing wrought iron gate.

  I look up at a wine-red facade with gold lettering and a sculpture of a waiter wearing a green vest and holding a tray. He’s a centaur — half man, half horse. Weird as fuck.

  “We’re here,” Oscar announces with the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on his face.

  Les Pavillons de Bercy, the sign at the top reads. I study the subheads underneath, all in fancy gold font.

  Théâtre du Merveilleux,

  Musée des Arts Forains.

  Les Salons Vénitiens

  Unfortunately, my French escapes me. The only word I can make out is ‘theatre’. He’s taking me to the theatre. How fun.

  I’m still speechless when we enter the stunning garden, a cozy alcove of trees, just budding, surrounded by historical whimsical buildings made of old stone. Red barn doors, carousel horses, and chandeliers hanging from ivy covered lines. Twinkling lights abound — it’s gorgeous. There are even mimes and fire artists entertaining the crowds.

  “Oscar, this is beautiful,” I say. And romantic too.

  His smile is precious. “I knew you would like it.”

  “I do.”

  “Wait till we get inside. You’re going to go crazy.”

  “What is this place?” I ask, still confused. “Theatre?”

  “Not quite,” he tells me. “It’s the museum of carnival arts. This place is full of old circus stuff. Antique merry-go-rounds, mechanical games, and a bunch of other weird stuff. They shot that scene from Midnight in Paris here.”

  My eyes grow wide. “No way! The bit when Gil goes back in time and he’s at that cool party with Adriana and she shows him a bicycle carousel?”

  Oscar nods. “I know that’s one of your favorite movies.”

  My eyes well up. This is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.

  “Let’s go in,” he says, and I follow him, eager as a kid at an amusement park.

  If I thought the garden was amazing, I wasn’t prepared for the inside of the museum. It feels like I’ve walked into another era, like I’m Alice in Wonderland, and I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole. The place is spooky, mysterious and kind of creepy, but in a good way. It’s full of antique fairground paraphernalia, colorful and beautiful in its details — old carousel horses, jesters, strange sculptures. This place is absolutely magical.

  “Did you know that I used to collect carousel horses when I was young?”

  He smiles. “Yeah, you told me that. Your mom used to roam antique stores and thrift shops for them.”

  “Yep… that’s my mom… quirky.”

  My heart sinks at the thought of her. This fight we’re having leaves me feeling so broken. I’d forg
otten about it these past few hours, too consumed with where Oscar was taking me.

  “Check out the weird mermaid lady,” Oscar says, and I turn to look at the enchanting dark haired statue with the curled fish tail.

  Marie, our tour leader is speaking French. Unfortunately, English speaking tours are only available in the summer, and she is speaking way too fast for me to understand what she’s saying. The six other people in our tour all appear to be French-speaking and are stuck to her words. Oscar and I are completely lost in our little world, but I don’t mind.

  As I take in the overwhelming sights around me, I’m lost in a sensation I’ve never experienced before — whimsy. I feel like I’m in the pages of a storybook; a strange colorful fable, or like a small figure in an antique jewelry box, the pretty ones with the tiny mirrors and dancing ballerinas. This place is absolutely enchanting.

  Oscar seems just as fascinated as I am.

  First on the agenda is the antique carousel, over one hundred years old. The horses are so exquisite. I wonder about the long hours of work the artisans spent a century ago making these works of art. They take me back to my childhood bedroom. I wonder if mom has kept all my carousel horses. I sigh at the thought of her.

  Oscar presses his mouth against my ear. “Remember Montmartre?”

  I smile, an inconspicuous grin full of naughty memories. Of course I remember Montmartre and the Moulin Rouge. That may have been the sexiest night of my life.

  We hop on, side by side, and as we turn and turn, I marvel at the lights surrounding us and the Victorian beauty of it all; golden gilding and bright colors. I study the strange sculptures, and revel in the classical music playing in the background and the joyful faces around me.

  We then hop on the Venetian steel boats. They hold two people each, and Oscar and I share one. He kisses me chastely and I squeeze his hand. There are stunning painted murals of Venice surrounding us. I’ve never been, and I’m pretty sure this is the closest I’ll ever get. I close my eyes for a second as the boat rocks us back and forth.

  Next, we hop on another carousel. This time we sit in a beautifully detailed ornate gold carriage. The mystical fish lady stands up high in the middle. Edith Piaf is playing in the background. I recognize her voice from the movie, La Vie en Rose.

  Marie has saved the best for last. The antique bicycle powered merry-go-round dates back to 1896, and is the very one featured in Midnight in Paris. I’m excited as we all get to sit on the tricycles and pedal to make it move. Talk about a unique experience — there can’t be too many of these in the world. Oscar winks at me. “Faster,” he calls out. “Vite. Vite. Vite.”

  I laugh. I didn’t know he could speak French.

  Following the rides, our host leads us to discover even more amazing sights. She is still chatting away, quite attractive in that classic way stylish French women are. She has long dark hair, and wears a classic white shirt and black pants. But my attention is on all the mannequins wearing the beautiful vintage hats and dresses. God, how I wish I knew what she was saying — I’d love to know more about them.

  Next up are the animatronics. Oscar seems fascinated, despite the fact that he doesn’t understand a single word Marie is saying. I personally find them kind of creepy. But it takes me back to when I was a kid, when Mom took Sarah and I to Disneyland. I loved the It’s a Small World ride, full of whimsical animatronics.

  We enjoy a fully mechanized performance, a very intense Victorian play featuring vintage animatronics. They are all wearing masks and are very creepy, but I love every minute of it. This was entertainment in the 1800s. Not quite as entertaining as TV, smartphone games and youTube, but super interesting to watch.

  Next, we enjoy a fun puppet show and a very cool projection show.

  Marie is super excited when she brings us to the old carnival games. My restless eyes are greedy and I can’t wait to get my hands busy. I shoot a quick glance at Oscar, and he seems just as eager as I am to play. We’re both just small children in adult bodies.

  “Check it out,” I nudge him in the ribs. “La course des garçons de café,” I say in broken French. “Coffee boy races… just up your alley,” I tease. The game looks so fun — a bunch of waiters with trays lined up, ready to go, as soon as balls are thrown in holes by the players. The more balls in the hole, the faster your waiter moves.

  We’re both eager as we take a seat at the game, a few other players separating us. “Good luck,” he calls out just before the game begins. I have the guy with the pink bottle of wine and black suit. His has a white suit and holds a red bottle of wine.

  The game host calls out, “Préparez-vous. Partez. Allez-y!”

  I focus on the balls, and only the balls. Ball in. Ball in. Ball in. I glance up quickly. I’m ahead. So is Oscar. We’re killing it. I guess French people are not too good at throwing balls. I suppose they haven’t spent as many hours at arcades as Oscar and I have.

  We’re way ahead, and my heart is beating with excitement. One of us is going to win this, but who will it be? We’re so close… I can’t stand it. I decide to focus on the balls again. Ball in. Ball in. Ball in.

  Ding. Ding Ding.

  Numéro trois!!! The game host hollers.

  Numéro trois. That’s me! I bounce up and down on my seat, way more excited than I should be. We hop off our seats, and Oscar gives me a hug. “Congrats, girl. You really know how to handle those balls.”

  I wink at him. “You know I do.”

  “Too bad there were no prizes,” he says with a pout.

  “Nah… don’t need any prizes. It’s all about the glory.”

  We play a few more carnival games, most of them involving shoving balls in holes. I win a few more, and so does Oscar. Win or lose, I’m just fascinated by the classic steel and wooden construction of the games.

  As the evening draws to a close, our guide bids us adieux and thanks us for booking a tour with her. Oscar and I walk over to the treats vendor, buy cotton candy, and sit on an old Victorian bench to enjoy it.

  “Did you know that cotton candy is called Barbe-à-papa in French?” I ask him, not waiting for an answer. “Which roughly translates to ‘daddy’s beard’. Weird, huh?”

  He grins from ear to ear. “And we both know how you love your beards.”

  I do. I love when Oscar lets his facial hair grow. I take him in for a few seconds — his beard is perfect tonight, full but not too long. I love the feel of it on my cheeks, on my breasts, between my thighs.

  “I do,” I admit, a little flustered. “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

  He grins. “How ‘bout you enjoy some beard later when we get back?”

  I shoot him a flirty smile. “For sure.”

  Before we head out, we bother a nice lady to snap a few pics of the both of us, our heads uncomfortably propped in the holes of a silly cutout. He’s the jester, and I’m the well-to-do Victorian lady. It had to be done because we’re both very nerdy like that. And I just know that Oscar will post this on his Instagram to embarrass me thoroughly.

  39

  “THANK YOU,” I say as we walk down the streets of the 12th arrondissement. The night air is crisp and cool, and I hug myself as my boots take me toward our apartment in the first. “Thanks for taking me there. It was the coolest place I’ve ever been.”

  “My pleasure.” He cozies up closer, and slows down his stride. “I knew you would love it. I was doing research about Paris because I wanted to do something special with you, and when I found that place, I thought it was perfect.”

  “It was.” We’re not holding hands — it’s too chilly for that. His hands are in his pockets and mine are huddled against my breasts. We walk briskly. I wonder if he’s as anxious to get home as I am. I picture us, naked and warm in our bed.

  He smirks. “I can’t believe you beat me at that game.”

  I smile. “I sure did.”

  “You sure did,” he says, and grabs my hand abruptly, practically startling the boots off me. He presse
s me against a green building. There’s a HOTEL sign lit up. My feet are awkwardly tangled around a potted plant. He presses his mouth to mine, and I get lost in the heat of his kiss. I indulge in him for a few seconds before pushing him away. “We can’t. Not here.”

  He smiles and pulls away. We resume walking with huge grins on our faces. We talk about the museum, not walking fast enough. “Did you notice that woman statue with the horse head and the angel wings?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Lots of weird statues. But they were all really beautiful.”

  “That might have been the weirdest, creepiest place I’ve ever been to."

  He’s walking a little too briskly, and I stretch out my stride to keep up with him. “Creepier than the catacombs?”

  “Sorta. Creepy in a different way.”

  He grabs my hand again, and pulls me in once more. This time it’s against an old curved stone wall covered in lush greenery, stretching around a curve. It’s dark but there’s a streetlamp not far in the distance. He presses his hot mouth against my cheek. “You know when I was in the catacombs, I kept thinking about you.”

  “Really?” I’m amused by his admission. “Skulls and bones make you think of me. Interesting.”

  “There were all these dark corners down there, and I couldn’t help fantasizing about fucking you against one of those cold stone walls.”

  Heat fills my core, travels down my body. It’s so cold out, but my insides are melting. “Kind of…” I say, breathless. “Kind of like… this stone wall, right here.”

  Could we? Right here? It’s dark, and no one is around. Almost as if he can read my thoughts, he slides a slow hand under my long skirt, up the length of my calf, and then my thigh. His hot touch feels so delicious, like a warm bath. I close my eyes when he reaches my sex. I press my head back against the cold stones and look up at the dark night sky. “Oscar…” I whisper.