“So sorry, this is my . . .” But she trails off as she answers the phone. “Bonjour, Marisol.”
Her brow furrows, and she listens intently to her call for ten seconds, twenty seconds.
And I’ve crossed the line.
I can’t stand here and wait any longer. That would be rude. Her phone call is my cue to go.
I give her a tip of the hat. “Good-bye, Judy,” I whisper.
For a moment, her brow furrows, almost as if she’s surprised I’m taking off.
Then, she smiles brightly, waves her fingers at me, and mouths good-bye, Archie.
She turns the other way, her croissant in one hand, her phone to her ear in the other.
I let myself enjoy a few seconds of the view of her walking away.
Then reality swoops back in. I’m no longer flirting with a sexy American woman as if I don’t have a care in the world. Instead, I’m left here holding a baguette and my helmet, wondering what I’ll do next to earn the money to take the trip my brother wanted to take.
5
Joy
The line stretches for a hundred feet or more. It’s almost as if, well, it’s as if everyone has heard of this place.
But I’m not going to let a long line deter me.
Nope. I have sunglasses and no place to be today—except for a destination I wanted to visit on the trip that never was.
I grab a spot at the back of the line queued up to enter the north tower at the cathedral of Notre Dame. Literally everyone is taking photos. And I’m not exaggerating. This is one of those times when literally literally applies.
Except me.
I set up an Instagram account a year ago, thinking I’d fill it with everything I longed to see in this city on that trip.
It went unused, and my shutterbug ways remained limited to the mundane, to everyday items I didn’t want to forget. The filter in my furnace so I’d remember which brand to buy. A shot of my insurance card when I renewed my license. Proof of a deposit to show the bank. My camera roll is littered with daily reminders of tasks, and only tasks.
I believe Paris is where you go to reinvent yourself.
That’s why I’m here.
To start over. To embrace life, opportunity, and beauty. And since change is the name of the game, I decide to capture what inspires me. I gaze at the spires of the cathedral, its massive archways, the sheer enormity of the fairy-tale-esque cathedral. I look at the real thing, but then, since I don’t want to forget it, I snap a photograph.
As I stare at the intricate stone carvings in my camera app, I flash back to the Englishman from earlier today and imagine standing here with him, continuing our conversation. The possibility is so potent, I can see him. I can smell the faint scent of sweat and wood from his aftershave. I can hear the proper notes of his voice. If he were with me now, would we still be tossing increasingly ridiculous names at each other? Would we have moved on to other topics, like how many times he’s seen this cathedral, or the fact that I’ve never set foot in it before? Would he have said, “Go on without me. I’ll just wait for you here?”
My shoulders tighten as those far too familiar words echo in my mind.
Those were words Richard used, and I wince as I fall back in time to more than a year ago. I was invited to New York to speak at a conference. He wanted to tag along, he’d said. See the sights while I spoke on a panel and attended meetings. He’d visit the Empire State Building, see Central Park, stroll around the Village. But the day of my panel, he woke up and said he was in too much pain to go anywhere. He’d stay behind at the hotel. Don’t worry about me, he said. He texted me on my way to the conference. It’s not so bad. I’ll be fine. He texted me when I arrived at the Javits. Spoke too soon. Back is killing me. I told him to consider calling a doctor. He texted me minutes before my presentation. Can barely move now.
Please call a doctor, I texted before I went on stage.
It was the worst presentation I’d ever done. I was so worried about him.
As soon as it ended and I emerged from the cavern of the convention center, I called him. He didn’t answer. My heart hammered with worry, with fear that he’d truly taken some sort of turn for the worse. After a gnarly cab ride to the hotel and a mad dash through the lobby to the elevators, I found him sound asleep in the room.
When he awoke later that day, he said he’d turned the ringer off to take a nap, but he felt better and was ready for dinner.
We had sushi that night, and he asked how my talk went. I didn’t bother telling him that I sucked. He felt better, and that was all that mattered.
In fact, he’d said at dinner that night that he would feel well enough to go to Paris in a few months. But when the trip drew near, he claimed flying made his back worse. He’d need more pills before he could fly. So many more, he’d told me. So many that I should go on without him.
I didn’t.
I don’t know what Richard is doing now. He’s still in Austin, and I’m far, far away.
Right here, right now, I decide Archibald the Baguette Eater would have happily waited in line with me, cheerfully climbed the steps, and playfully confessed his name to me at the belfry. By the gargoyles, he’d have whispered it in my ear.
When I reach the main entrance, I don’t go inside the church. I march up the corkscrew stone staircase, my breath coming faster
