Page 23 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
Even the hostel isn’t hostile anymore. In fact, it’s more homey than I ever would have thought it could be.
First couple of days at the hostel felt as welcoming as a porcupine at a balloon party, much thanks to the not-so-welcome I got on my first day. But once I had my passport photocopy, within forty-eight hours, it turned cozier than a quilt on a chilly night. First, I met Charlotte from Quebec—girl's got a sense of humor sharper than a cactus—and Emilia, our German treat, always ready with stories that sound more imagined than real… and then she whips out the photographic evidence.
Tonight, us girls are heading out, including the receptionist, Camille.
Yeah, the one who was all bristles and scowls when I first stumbled in, luggage-laden and lost. Turns out, she had to put her cat down the day before I arrived. Poor thing was just draped in grief and I caught the brunt of it.
We shared a moment last week, Camille and I, over a picture of her fluffy, grumpy-looking Monsieur Flouflou. I understood then why she was being the way she was. Camille and I bonded on a new level over our furry feline friends—because my boys back home are making my heart ache something fierce—and our friendship was born.
Living at a hostel's been a ride itself, like summer camp, but with less curfew and more wine. I've met a whole UN assembly of people: a graphic designer from Seoul, a writer from Cairo, and even a DJ from Argentina.
In the plans for tonight is a thing called a “Bal Trad.” I had to ask Camille twice what that was exactly.
“Think less nightclub, more village square,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “It's where everyone—grandparents, kids, even awkward Americans—come together to dance.”
I'm not exactly sure what I've signed up for, but the idea of linking arms and skipping around to some fiddle-fueled music has an odd appeal to this country girl.
I head back to my little corner at the hostel to change—I share a double room but where my bunkmate works the night shift so we never see each other—passing by the common room where a group of travelers is debating the best crepe stand in the city. The laughter and chatter, a comforting background noise, follow me down the hall.
Bal Trad. What does one wear to a Bal Trad? I go with something I’d wear to a bar back home, one with a square dancing floor, and hope it says 'I'm here to dance, not to impress,' and meet the group downstairs.
The hostel's reception area is buzzing when I step in, everyone ready for a night out. As soon as I make my entrance, it's like I've walked onto the set of some feel-good sitcom where everybody knows my name.
“Annie!” The shout comes from Ines, the Brazilian whirlwind of a backpacker, her arms thrown wide before she pulls me into a fierce hug. Her excitement's infectious, and I’m now grinning like a fool.
“There’s the girl,” Emilia rushes over with a hug like I didn’t see her fifteen minutes ago.
Next are thebisous, the cheek kisses that I'm still getting used to. They come from all sides—Camille, the once-stoic receptionist, and Luca, the Italian chef with a laugh louder than his scooter. The warmth of their welcome is something else, and yet again I feel…
Home.
We spill out onto the streets, a motley crew of international misfits in a symphony of languages, laughter, and the occasional burst of song from Luca, who’s never shy for a serenade.
When we arrive, the Bal Trad is everything Camille promised and more. It's an explosion of color and sound, set in front of a grand old hall, outdoors in the square where twinkle lights are hung. A live band is on stage, fiddles and accordions singing out tunes that tug at your feet.
The dance is a whirl of motion, a tapestry of people of all ages twirling and stomping. I'm swept up into the fray almost immediately, laughter spilling from me as I'm passed from partner to partner in a dizzying chain of steps I can barely follow.
But it doesn't matter that I'm stumbling over my own two feet because here, in a square as old as Paris itself, with new friends who already feel like family, I'm dancing to the rhythm of a life I'm just beginning to call my own.
What a difference a month makes.
The fiddle's cry slices through the hall, a wild call that sets my soul alight.
“Holy smokes, y'all,” I holler over the music. “This really is just like a French version of a square dance!” My feet find the rhythm, almost of their own accord, and I'm swinging around with a vigor that would make my line-dancing teacher back in Sage tip his hat.
The dancers are a blur of spinning skirts and bobbing heads, the stomp of boots a heartbeat that drives us all. I'm laughing, breathless, my hands clasped with strangers who feel like friends in the span of a single song. We're a living carousel, turning together in a spectacle of unity that transcends language.
Then, for a fleeting moment, amidst the twirl of faces, one name floats into my mind.
Mathieu.
My heart vaults into my throat. It had to be him earlier. A man with that same tousled hair, that same lean build. A posture that is both humble and solid, and gosh.
I miss him.
How silly—missing a man I spent one night with, and not even in the steamy sense of the word.
But I’d never had a more romantic night in my life.
