Page 94 of Sparks
My thoughts settled when we got into the city proper and I stared out. The magnitude of what I was doing overcame me. I was here solely for myself. I was going to make a concerted effort each day not to think of the S-men, or any man for that matter. Time to focus on me and distance myself from all of the drama that had plagued me—drama I’d caused.
The tall buildings and massive hotels with people bustling past gave me that New York City vibe, but then there were adorable corner restaurants with outdoor seating and ruffled overhangs. Potted plants lined the areas. Small alleyways with cramped old-world style rowhomes and cobbled stones changed that city vibe, adding the charm of history and culture.
By the time the cab pulled up at the hotel down a narrow street I was completely enamored. A middle-aged man in a nice suit was waiting with a smile, holding open the door for me.
“Miss Robinson?” he said in his beautiful accent.
“Oui,” I responded, making him smile even bigger. “Bonjour.”
“Welcome.”
The first thing I noticed was how small the space was. Walking into an American hotel was always a spacious experience. In this hotel, everything was a tight squeeze, yet managed not to feel cramped because of the high ceilings. The waiting area was two maroon loveseats facing one another with a massive wooden coffee table between them. Along the walls were stands with ornate vases, and interesting statues of safari animals in funny poses. Nearly every space on the walls had some sort of décor: paintings or neat wall-paper designs popping with color. And yet, none of it felt tacky, which was quite a feat.
“Your room is not quite ready; however, I will hold your luggage while you explore. There is much to see in, eh, walking distance, yes?”
“Yes,merci,” I said, feeling stupid for mixing English and French. With my cross-body bag nestled over my flight attendant peacoat, I was ready to go. The desk man motioned for me to look at a small map.
He pointed out places I could walk today, mainly the authentic village of Montmartre and Sacré-Cœur atop its massive hill. I thanked him and set out.
Almost immediately I was overwhelmed and intimidated. I tried to compare the map to the street I was walking, but nothing was aligning right in my mind. After twenty minutes of walking and fretting that I was lost, my lack of sleep and burned-out-excitement made me feel like I was going to crash.
And then I saw the small sign for Montmartre with an arrow. Yes! Back to life!
The street slanted upward, giving my thigh muscles a nice burn. I passed stands for crepes and kitschy tourist gift shops. A blustery breeze blew down the street, making me and others pull our scarves up over our faces. Everyone was right about Parisians and their scarves. Some of them wore scarves so big they looked like blankets, but somehow managed not to appear ridiculous.
I’d read about the steps to get up the hill to Sacré-Cœur, the grand basilica, but beholding them in real life was something different. It must have been a million steps. I stared up the hill in awe.
“Excuse me, Dear. Are you American? You are very beautiful. May we talk?”
I turned to the swarthy young guy eyeing me. When he reached for my hand, red lights flashed in my mind, realizing this was the ploy I’d been warned about.
“No, thank you!” I said, then turned and raced up the stairs. I didn’t stop running until I was a quarter of the way up. I turned to look and saw the guy had moved on to another group of tourists, and I relaxed. Also, my lungs were on fire. My stairs in Jersey City had nothing on this.
I took my time the rest of the way and felt accomplished when I got to the top. The view was spectacular, overlooking the village and vast landscaping. The wind was chillier up here, but it was sunny, and the sunshine felt wonderful on my face. I glanced over at a wall of stone and noticed a phrase was spray-painted in English:Pick Pocket Girlsin cool graffiti art. Although I didn’t wish to be pick-pocketed, I had to smile at it, thinking it would make a great title for a badass YA book.
My mom had told me that I needed to walk around to the back of the hill for the artsy sector of the area, so I did. It took a while and again I began to doubt I was going the right way, and then I was on the cobblestone street leading up to a square with tons of people. With my hands deep in my pockets, I walked the perimeter of the square, watching artists draw and paint patrons who sat for them. One woman drew a little girl’s likeness in chalk and I stopped to watch so long that the artist said, “You next?”
I smiled and shook my head, deciding it was time to try the food. I walked into a café with a sign that said it was famous for its chocolate, meaning hot cocoa. Who could pass that up?
Inside, I waffled, not sure if I should seat myself or wait. A woman in a crisp, white shirt and black slacks motioned to a table overlooking the courtyard through the window.
The menu was simple. Sandwiches, breads, croissants. Espresso drinks and chocolate drinks. Glancing around, two French business women sat at the table beside me. They both had slices of thick, crusty bread cut from a round loaf with ramekins of butter, honey, and jam. My mouth watered. When the waitress came back, I said, “Bonjour,” then pointed to the bread and also asked for a chocolate, “S’il vous plaît.” She smiled at my broken French.
The hot cocoa was liquid richness. The bread was crusty on the outside and perfectly tender and chewy on the inside. I savored every perfect bite and sip. Ah, Paris. The city where classy ladies ate gluten-filled bread and drank cocoa.
My full exhaustion didn’t hit until I made it back to the bottom of the hill. I kept my head down, face half hidden in my scarf. And then it began to rain. Luckily, I had a compact umbrella in my purse at Mom’s insistence. Score! I wrestled it open, put it over my head, took five steps, and thenwhoosh! A giant gust of sideways rain and wind turned it inside out and ripped it from my hand. I chased after it, and noticed a man running towards it as well. His height and build made my breath catch. Silas? I stopped and watched as he grasped the rogue umbrella and turned to me with a smile, rain dripping off his chin. No cleft. Nose too wide. Lips too thin.
Not Silas.
He handed me the umbrella and I thanked him in French before he rushed off, clutching his jacket against the wind. My heart was pounding as I stared down at the umbrella. Two of the wires were broken now. Dang it! And the rain came down harder.
Most people took cover in shops and restaurants. I ducked into a souvenir shop, still unsettled. What would I have done if it had been Silas? In that moment I’d felt excited. I shook away the sensation, reminding myself I was here forme.
I browsed until the worst of the rain passed, then I bought a keychain to be polite and jogged out into the drizzling streets. The rain came down harder again as I speed-walked, feeling like a drowned rat. Halfway back to the hotel it let up and I slowed my pace.
Back at the hotel, the concierge took one look at me and his eyes widened. He made asnickingsound as he reached for the broken umbrella in my hand and pointed to a large bucket with several strong-looking black umbrellas with handles.
“You use this next time, yes, Mademoiselle?”
