She smiles and translates into her language. I repeat her words.
“Very good.”
“Thank you.”
She hums, a soft little sound. “Paris is a good place for a new life. I believe Paris is where you go to reinvent yourself.”
A few years ago, reinvention was the last thing I’d imagined wanting. I was content with a capital C.
Now, it’s what I need most.
As the jet descends, I find that I am well and truly excited—not down there, but here, in my chest, in my heart—for what lies ahead.
Mostly because it’s just that. Ahead.
The past belongs to yesterday.
When the wheels touch the tarmac, I bid yesterday a silent and final adieu.
2
Griffin
The way a travel book tells it, the River Seine is 485 miles long, thirty-one feet deep on average, and is spanned by thirty-seven bridges in France’s capital city.
Boring.
Facts can be so terribly dull.
If I were writing a travel book, I’d surely add other details.
For instance, the river is also a home to occasional sewage overflows, it’s a resting spot for love locks from the Pont Des Arts tossed in the river when angry lovers split, and it’s a fairly popular watery disposal site for dead bodies, since about fifty-five of those buggers were dredged up in the Seine as recently as ten years ago.
Just picture that the next time someone suggests a dinner boat cruise down the Seine.
Yes, if I were a tour guide, I’d spend too much time noodling on little details with my tourists, like when were the bodies tossed into the water and how long had they been earthworm meat before being given the heave-ho to their wet graves. As for the love locks, I’d ponder how many clever little bits and bobs could have been made with the damn discarded metal in the first place. Picture frames, necklaces, and the like . . . I have to imagine an entire industry could be born from the declarations of love that weigh down one of the city’s bridges.
But perhaps that’s why I’m not a tour guide. I find the odd facts and curiosities of a city much more interesting than monuments and guideposts.
As I ride my bike along the Left Bank, the sun rises above the horizon of the city I’ve lately come to call my home. I near one of the bouquinistes I see most mornings. His name is Julien, and he looks the part of a seller of antiquarian books and postcards from his stand alongside the river. He sports a mustache and a beret, and he often wears a striped shirt. I asked him once if he even liked the beret. “No,” he’d said, curling his lip in disdain. “It is horrible. But I sell more postcards when I wear it.” Then he gave a typical French shrug.
“Bet you sell even more when you’re in stripes.”
A wicked grin had appeared on his face. “I do.”
“Bonjour, Julien,” I call out when I’m a few feet away.
“Why do you wear that stupid helmet?” he asks gruffly. “You look ridiculous. You’re the only one who wears a helmet.”
“I like what’s inside it,” I say with a smile as I pass him.
He huffs but waves a quick good-bye.
I slow at the light at the bridge and pedal off when it turns green. I raise my face to the blue sky and smile.
It’s one of those days when I feel a little lighter, a little springier, with a mood to match the weather. Paris in the springtime is capricious, but today the sun is shining, and as I ride past groups of tourists streaming toward Notre Dame, a burst of wistfulness courses through me. It’s a shame, in a way, that I’ll soon be saying good-bye, since this city has been good to me. We’ve had a steady run—the cafés and the bookshops, the hunts up cobbled streets, and the escapades in the evenings with pretty women.
I cut across the next intersection and turn onto the sidewalk of Rue LaGrange. I veer to the right, avoiding a mother holding her toddler’s hand. The mother shoots me a coarse look. She probably thinks I’m a tourist. That if I were a true Frenchman, I’d ride in the street, sans helmet, and a scarf looped around my neck no matter the weather. I simply smile in return, because nothing is going to get me down today.
When I reach the florist shop, I slow to a stop, lock up my bike, then unscrew the seat. You can’t be too safe, especially in a city rife with not only pickpockets, but thieves who will do nearly anything to nick a bike. Except ride away with their crotch perched on a metal pole.
I say hello to the florist then head inside the Capstone Language Institute next door, taking the stairs to the fifth floor, whistling a happy tune as I go, bike seat in hand. Today isn’t just payday. It’s cha-ching day. It’s rain-euros-on-me-for-a-job-well-done day.
This is the day I’ve been waiting for.
When I push open the door to our offices, I cross paths with my friend Christian, who shakes his blond head, bemused at something. Christian is a top translator at the same company I work for. He knows French and all the Scandinavian languages, even though he was raised in England from a young age.
I take a wild guess at the source of his amusement. “Jean-Paul is on a roll this morning?”
“My ears will never recover from the tale he just told.”
I cringe. The fellow who runs the place and doles out the assignments is prone to TMI. Jean-Paul has never met a tawdry tale he wouldn’t tell. “Just smile and nod, right?”
“I did my best, I swear,” Christian says. “But I might need to find a way to erase the last five minutes from my memory. Something about a house of ill repute, three women, a bustier, and red heels. I’m not sure if the heels were worn or drunk from—”
I hold
