Now, it’s Sunday morning, and I’m off to meet Elise. Her blog and its descriptions of perfumes have expanded my mind—she never says this smells like an iris, but instead she’d write one whiff and you’ll be tending to a window box full of freshly blooming irises, their petals carrying a hint of a warm spring breeze. I take a small sampler tube of Linger, a rare brand, since it was discontinued a decade ago, and I tie a silver bow around it. I can’t arrive empty-handed. That would be rude.
I drop the gift into my purse, and a new text winks up at me on my phone. I slide it open, and it does funny things to my chest and to my belly. Butterflies flutter all around.
Griffin: Bonjour.
It’s not even the word. It’s that he texted me good morning.
It’s going to be a hard three months.
Correction. Two months and three weeks.
Joy: Bonjour to you, too! How did I do with that? Admit it, you’re impressed.
Griffin: So very impressed. Next, you’ll be telling me you bought scissors and a laundry-drying rack with ease.
As I head to the metro station, I feel a little sheepish. I didn’t accomplish any errands yesterday. I spent the day exploring my arrondissement and eating ice cream.
Once I’m safely inside the metro—yay for sparse Sunday morning traffic and Converse sneakers—I tell Griffin.
Joy: I spent the day exploring. I avoided errands. I ate ice cream. It wasn’t as good as I’d hoped. The ice cream, that is.
Griffin: I’m an expert at avoiding errands. I can’t believe you didn’t call me for errand-avoiding company. Also, the best ice cream is on Île de la Cité. Have you been yet?
Joy: No. But now I’m fantasizing about a cone.
Griffin: Today. Four p.m. Berthillon. Your fantasy comes true.
The smile that spreads across my face is wide and radiant. It’s not a date. It’s nothing at all like a date. It’s a friendly outing.
And I can’t wait.
Joy: In that case, I’ll be there. Assuming I don’t botch the subway again. I tried to go to the Louvre yesterday and wound up at Moulin Rouge.
Griffin: Seems someone was looking out for you. :) The Louvre is overrated.
Indeed. I drop my phone in my purse and sit back on the subway seat, rattling underground all the way to Place D’Abbesses, where I exit at the famous Montmartre stop. I’m six stories underground, and since that’s a piece of cake to me these days thanks to my Uneven 84, I take the spiral steps all the way up to street level, where the famous umbrella-like green awning of the metro stop awaits.
I stare at it and snap a photo. I post it with a #favoritesinParis, then head to Place du Tertre, where the caricaturists gather. I glance at my watch. I’m meeting Elise in thirty minutes. This spot is so ridiculously touristy, and I can’t resist. One of the caricaturists makes eye contact, and I remember my French words.
“How much?” I ask in his language.
“Ten euros.”
I’m ready to pump a fist. I can do this. Oh là là.
My sister will get a kick out of this caricature. I take a seat and he begins chatting. In French. I don’t understand a word he’s saying. I pretend he’s telling me I have a very expressive face and a fantastic smile, and he admires my adventuresome spirit so much. Not everyone would venture up to Montmartre by herself, but here you are braving a new city, experiencing all it has to offer. Don’t worry about the ex. You did what you could. You helped where you could. Not everyone wants to be helped, you know?
He raises an eyebrow, waiting for an answer as he sketches.
“Oui. C’est vrai,” I reply. Yes, that’s true.
After all, I’m having a pretend conversation with him. I might as well answer what I imagine him asking.
I know it was hard to finally say good-bye, but you’d tried so many times before, and besides, you were stuck, he was stuck, and he refused to get help for his addiction. Once he was injured at work and hurt his back, you did everything you could to help him recover. You took him to doctors. You took him to endless doctors’ appointments. You sought out every possible treatment for him. But the only option he wanted was more and more OxyContin. And then another pill, another, and then another. You tried to get him help, but he didn’t want it. Besides, you weren’t in love with him anymore. You hadn’t been for a whole year, since before he fell off a ladder. You can only try for so long until there is no more trying to do.
“Oui?” The man smiles at me, asking me his question.
“Oui.” I return his grin, though I’ve no idea what he asked.
“Voilà!” He presents me with my caricature, and I laugh at the elongated chin and huge lips, and my hair that looks like windswept curtains. My eyes are huge—saucers in my face.
“Beautiful,” he says, and I understand him.
“Thank you.”
I pay him, roll up the drawing, and tuck it into my cavernous purse as I leave the square with the café, turning onto a curvy street that climbs the hills in Montmartre. Breathing deeply, I let the scent of the ivy that curls over the walls of a brick home on my path flood my nose. The street bends, and I imagine Picasso himself walking these roads. I’m hardly an artist, but sometimes I craft scents and seductive compositions, and I suppose that’s the closest I come to making art.
As the street bends once more, a heavy green door etched with curling ironwork panels comes into view.
That must be Elise’s home. A dual citizen, Elise has lived in Paris for several years now. She was born in Manhattan to French parents
