“Today?” she says, thinking. “It’s Saturday in June, so the crowds will be ridiculous; skip the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower. Hit Luxembourg Gardens.” She yawns loudly. “Report in tomorrow. I’m going back to sleep.”
She hangs up.
NOTHING IS MORE surreal than this, I swear it. I eat at the window, staring out at the view, and then move into the small, tiled shower, where I shave and wash and shampoo until I feel like every inch of me has been sufficiently scrubbed. When I step out, the steam begins to clear and in a rush, it hits me that I can’t just go home and grab the things I forgot to pack. I have no blow-dryer, no flatiron. I can’t meet up with the girls tonight to tell them everything. Ansel is gone for the day and I have no idea when he’ll be back. I’m alone, and for the first time in five years I’m going to have to dip into the savings account I’ve watched grow with pride. Every one of my paychecks from the coffee shop I worked in throughout college went directly into that account; Mom insisted on it. And now, it’s going to allow me to have a summer in France.
A summer. In France.
My reflection in the mirror whispers, What the fuck are you doing? I blink my eyes closed, pushing myself into autopilot mode.
I find my clothes; he’s made room for my things in his dresser and closet.
You’re married.
I brush my hair. My toiletries are unpacked, tucked into one of the drawers in the bathroom.
You’re living with your husband in Paris.
I start to lock up the apartment using the spare key Ansel left for me right next to a small bundle of euros.
I find myself staring down at the unfamiliar paper bills, unable to quell the unease I feel at Ansel having left me money. It’s such a visceral reaction, the way my stomach tightens at the thought of living off someone else—someone other than my parents, I guess—that I have to push it aside until he’s home and we can have a conversation that doesn’t involve me with my head in the toilet.
In Las Vegas, and then in San Diego, we were on even footing. At least, it felt more even than it does now. We were both on vacation, carefree. After, I was headed to school, he was headed back here to his job, and life, and well-decorated flat. Now I’m the post-college squatter with no plans, the girl who needs directions to the métro, and snack money left by the door.
I leave the money where it is and cross the narrow hall to the elevator. It’s tiny, and with barely more than two feet on either side of me, I reach out and press the button marked with a star and the number one. The lift groans and shudders as it makes its descent, wheels and gears whirring above me until it lands with a thunk on the ground floor.
Outside the apartment it’s loud and windy, hot and chaotic. The streets are narrow, the sidewalks made of pavers and cobblestone. I start walking, stopping at the corner where the narrow road opens up into what must be a wider, main street.
There are crosswalks, but no clear pedestrian rules. People step off the curb without looking. Cars use their horns as frequently as I take a breath but they don’t seem the slightest bit annoyed. They honk, they move on. There don’t really seem to be lanes, just a steady stream of cars that stop and go and yield in a pattern I don’t understand. Street vendors offer pastries and bottles of bright, sparkling sodas, and people in suits and dresses, jeans and track pants rush past me as if I’m a stone in a river. The language is lyrical and fast . . . and completely incomprehensible to me.
It’s as if the city is spread lusciously before me, prepared to pull me fully into its intricate heart, into mischief. I’m instantly, deeply enamored. How could I not be? Everywhere I turn the streets look like the most beautiful sets I’ve ever imagined, as if the entire world here is a stage, waiting to see my story unfold. I haven’t felt this kind of buzz since I was dancing, lost in it, living for it.
I use my phone to find the métro station at Abbesses, only a few blocks from Ansel’s apartment, manage to locate the line I need to take, and then I’m left waiting for the train, struggling to take in my surroundings. I send Harlow and Lola pictures of everything I see: the French posters for a book we all loved, six-inch heels on a woman who would already be taller than most men on the platform, the train as it blows into the station, carrying hot summer air and the smell of brake dust.
It’s a short ride to the sixth arrondissement, where Luxembourg Gardens are located, and I follow a group of chattering tourists who seem to have the same destination in mind. I was prepared for a park—grass and flowers and benches—but I wasn’t prepared to find such huge stretches of open space nestled in the center of this busy, cramped city. I wasn’t expecting the wide lanes lined with perfectly manicured trees. There are flowers everywhere: row after row of seasonal blooms, cottage beds and wildflowers, hedges and lacy blossoms of every imaginable color. Fountains and statues of French queens offer contrast to the foliage, and the tops of buildings I’ve seen only in movies or pictures loom in the distance. Sunbathers stretch out on metal chairs or benches under the sun, and children push small boats across the water while Luxembourg Palace watches over it all.