I walk to the end of the block, staring at everything with hungry eyes. I devour the sights, the delicate iron latticework on the balconies, the green and blue street signs displaying words like rue and boulevard, the curling calligraphy on shop fronts, from the boulangerie to the boutique to the patisserie. Even a pharmacy across the streets looks fancy, with a sign in emerald-green glass. The streets curve and angle, and I try to inhale Paris all at once, as if I can capture the magic of it in one big blink of the eye. Just to be safe, though, so I don’t forget it, I take a few more pics, sending those to my sister as well.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, mouth agape, when the River Seine comes into view.
I gasp.
I’m here. I’m really and truly here. And that winding ribbon of water is proof that I’m not in Texas anymore. I’m so far away from where I used to be, and I want to drink it all in, eat it all up, savor it.
“Oomph.” I stumble, my feet wobbly on the pavement.
A French woman mutters something at me under her breath since, oh yeah, I just whacked her arm due to my complete lack of attention.
“Sorry,” I say.
She lifts her chin and huffs.
“Well, excusez-moi.” Two can play at that game. But she’s clear across the street by now, so I smooth my hands over my blouse and keep on keeping on.
If that’s my only faux pas today, I’ll take it.
I stride to the corner and wait at the light, marveling at the familiar silhouette the famous church cuts against the sky. The sight tugs my mind back to the plans I made for a trip here more than a year ago. The flights were booked, the hotel secured. I’d mapped out a fun itinerary, with time to play ultimate tourist and time to explore the city’s nooks and secrets. That was what I most wanted to do. Uncover the city. Peel back its familiar layers and find the unexpected underneath.
Notre Dame was part of the trip, naturally. I like the sight of stained-glass windows and the smell of stone and old books.
But the trip was canceled.
Like so many other things.
The memory of the arguments that ensued, the drama, the debates, and then, finally, the unraveling chores—calling airlines, unbooking hotels—smacks me like a slap in the face, and I wish I could erase them from my mind. Erase my ex.
That’s one of the reasons this new job was so easy to say yes to. I wasn’t running away from a love that went sour, but I won’t deny that the prospect of all those miles—glorious miles, an ocean, and a continent between us—lubed up the path to “yes” quite easily. I can still recall the Friday afternoon at the lab when the email from L’Artisan landed in my inbox. I’d just finished working on some new formulations for a hair spray fragrance, and I’d tugged off my goggles and peeked at my phone.
Re: Inquiry
The subject line had intrigued me. Sure, it might very well have been an inquiry about trying a BRAND-NEW EXCITING SUPPLEMENT THAT REVERSES THE AGING PROCESS. Heck, I’m all for anything that actually does reverse aging. Whoever said one should grow old gracefully clearly never woke up one morning after her thirtieth birthday surprised to see—shudder—lines on her neck.
In any case, I clicked it open, stat, and found something better than the fountain of youth.
Would you be interested in relocating to Paris to oversee the fragrance lab at L’Artisan?
I nearly dropped the phone, and trust me, I have steady hands.
I replied so quickly I was sure I’d lose any negotiating power on account of overeagerness, but I was equally sure I didn’t care.
Hell to the yes.
Though I phrased my reply more professionally.
Two months later, I’m here, heading to my first meeting on French soil. Maybe I’m not Belle twirling with her basket in her blue aproned frock across the countryside. I’m me in jeans and boots, navigating my way through a major metropolis on the way to see Marisol. We planned to meet the translator L’Artisan hired for me—a lovely lady named Annalise who studied science at university, so she’s perfect for the job, Marisol had said.
As I wander along a side street, window shopping at all the boutiques, my phone rings.
“Hello,” I say cheerily when I answer, and Marisol asks me how I’m doing.
“Well,” I tell her, then ask the same of her.
In French.
Yay me.
She answers, then slides into English. “I hope your first day here is good so far. I wanted to let you know we must cancel the meeting with Annalise. She’s the translator we hired for you, but she’s no longer available.”
“Oh no.”
“It’s okay,” she says reassuringly. “She’s pregnant, and her doctor put her on bed rest due to some complications. She’s going to be fine, but she cannot do on-site work, naturally.”
“Of course,” I say, instantly understanding.
“Capstone also assures me they should be able to find someone quickly for you. We want your transition to be as seamless as possible. We can have your translator help you with anything you need to make this easy.”
“I appreciate all you do,” I tell her.
“We’re so thrilled to have you. I can still meet you for coffee, if you’d like? I’m nearby. Or I can send you to a fantastic bakery that’s not too far from where we were going to meet.”
“A bakery sounds perfect.” I don’t want to inconvenience her just for the sake of being social, especially since I want to start on the best foot possible.
She gives me the address, and
