Page 2 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
I flash one last smile to the taxi driver who grumbles in return as he passes me my change. The city buzzes like a beehive at high noon, suits and silk gliding past in a river of elegance that could make the pages of a high-fashion magazine feel downright homely. Cars honk in a rhythm, and with the window down, I hear a mix of multilingual chatter and the clink-clink of coffee spoons against porcelain in sidewalk cafés.
And standing high in front of me is the belle of the ball herself, the Eiffel Tower.
The air is a potpourri of espresso, pastry delights that tickle my taste buds with just a whiff, and a certain… finesse. It's a perfume all its own that has nothing to do with manure, hay, and goldenrod.
In Sage, the breeze carries the scent of sweetgrass and sizzling barbecues, and time ambles along like it’s got nowhere to be. Here, it's a waltz at double time, every step and turn deliberate and sharp. The pigeons strut with a sense of urgency, navigating the sea of tables and fluttering napkins. Gosh, even the pigeons are classy in Paris.
My boots, a bit dusty from the trails, now tread on cobblestones that weave stories beneath my soles. To my right is the glorious tower that makes this city famous, but if I crane my neck to the left, I can soak in the sight of storied buildings that cradle secrets within their stone carvings and iron balconies.
A gentle breeze brushes my face. It carries a hint of lilac from somewhere unseen, and I draw it into my lungs, hoping it'll tattoo itself on my memory. Nothing like the beginning of May, with the glory of flowers in bloom all over. With a determined stride and a squint against the mild sun, I push onward. Annie Clayton might be the first of her name to step foot in this city, but I’m set on making sure Paris remembers it.
My trusty old watch is stubbornly clinging to Texas time. I squint at it, trying to do the math. That's when a wave of exhaustion hits me—my brain’s got as much lag as a two-dollar streaming service on game day. My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton, and my eyes are blinking slow as molasses in January. Jet lag, that invisible trickster, has lassoed my senses.
I yawn wide enough to swallow the Seine. “Whoa there,” I mutter to myself, grabbing onto a lamppost that suddenly feels like my new best friend.
Dragging my suitcase behind me, the rickety wheels complaining all the way, I navigate through the gleaming streets radiating out from the Eiffel Tower. Somewhere along a side street is the hostel that will be my home for the coming months. I make a left, and the shadow of the Eiffel Tower falls away, replaced by the looming shapes of buildings that have seen better days. A left, a right, another right and… boy, oh boy. Not what I expected.
Paris, I'm learning quick, can turn on a dime—from chic to shabby, glossy to gritty, with just a few turns.
The air changes on this street, trading in sweet aromas for the scent of overripe trash and the tangy bite of something that reminds me of Auntie Lou's mystery stew, not that I’d ever tell cousin Natalie my true feelings about her mother’s cooking. A sudden scuttling catches my eye—a rat, bold as brass, scoots across the path with a scrap of something in its mouth.
The wafting stench on this back street pinches the back of my throat, and my nose can’t help but wrinkle.
Eau de real life.
The street my hostel's supposed to be on looks nothing like the picture-perfect postcards stocked in the airport. The stones underfoot are slick and the buildings huddle together like they're sharing warmth despite the late spring air. It's a far cry from the sprawling open fields of Sage, where you can see for miles and the horizon's the only thing that ever crowds you.
I heave my suitcase over a particularly treacherous crack in the sidewalk, an unladylike grunt escaping my lips with the effort. As noise of the main thoroughfares fades into a distant buzz, I'm left with the more intimate sounds of life in this less-polished pocket of Paris—the murmurs of conversation behind shutters, the soft cooing of pigeons roosting for the night, and the occasional rasp of a scooter engine.
Finding the hostel's faded sign, the door creaks open with a jingle. The dimly lit foyer promises rest, though perhaps not the most serene kind. But it's a bed, a place to lay my head, and right now, that's all the Texas girl dragging a dusty piece of Sage behind her could ask for. And the reviews online all said that despite the humble lodgings, the people are what make the place a delight.
The lobby's dim light does little to warm the reception desk, where a woman sits examining her nails with the kind of focus I usually reserve for choosing pie flavors at the county fair. She looks up as my boots clank on the wooden floors.
“Bonjour,” she drawls, the word dripping with ennui. “Can I help you?”
She’s a sure delight indeed.
Judging by the gaze of hers, this is a purely rhetorical question, but I'm not about to let a little thing like that dim my shine.
“Hiya! I'm Annie Clayton, and I hope y'all are as thrilled to see me as I am to see you!”
The corners of her mouth twitch in something that's almost a smile, but not quite.
“Thrilled,” she repeats, her tone dry enough to rival the desert. She types slowly, almost reluctantly, and then nods. “Ah, yes. Annie Clayton. Here until the end of July?”
“That's me!” I beam, proud as punch that I've actually made a reservation that stuck.
She glances up, the ghost of a smirk on her face. “Passport,s'il vous plaît?”
A simple request, but as I dip my hand into my handbag, an icy wave of panic washes over me.
Where is it?
My heart thumps a wild rhythm as I dump the contents of my bag onto the counter—a colorful cascade of gum wrappers, a phone charger, and a souvenir keychain I bought at DFW Airport, but no passport.
“Oh, sugar,” I mutter, my mind racing faster than a jackrabbit. The receptionist watches with a raised eyebrow, her boredom replaced with mild, detached curiosity.
But then, like the sun breaking through storm clouds, I remember—safety first, Annie. Don’t keep all your documents in one bag.
