Love Me in Paris

by D Pichardo-Johansson

  Well, neither were private ones.

  As expected for the long restroom lines, she takes forever to return and Luke and I have plenty of time to bond. We chat about the coincidence that we both went to college in Connecticut—he went to Trinity, and I went to Yale—when I recognize the book next to their maps and pick it up. It’s The Self-Vow, by Iris Kent.

  It can’t be. That stupid book is everywhere lately. “Dude, please don’t tell me you’re letting your woman read this crap!”

  He shrugs. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Do you know this author is telling women to become celibate?”

  “Nah, it’s not like that.” He points at some summary on the back cover. “It starts with a month of ‘fasting,’ to re-boot your life. No alcohol, tobacco, or drugs; zero sweets or junk food; no Internet and optionally, no sex. Then, you re-introduce one thing every month in the order of your choice.”

  “And that’s supposed to make sense because…” I gesture for him to complete the sentence. I’ve never been into self-denial.

  “I don’t know. I guess after not having had something for a while, having it again feels awesome?”

  I stare at him blankly. “So, basically, it’s like hitting yourself on the head with a hammer because of how good it feels when you stop doing it?”

  “No, it’s cleansing the palate. And you know what the celibacy part is about, don’t you?” He lowers his voice, “Sex is never steamier than when it’s forbidden. Women who had no libido yesterday can’t wait to do it if it’s taken off the table. I’ve heard everyone who tries to go on the sex fast ends up dropping that one before the month is over—and loving it.”

  We snicker in complicity. Maybe I should take a second look at that book. Until now I’ve assumed it’s just another craze, like the compulsion to leave locks on the bridges that overtook Europe in the last decade.

  “Well,” I add, “this ridiculous book has become such a phenomenon every woman I’ve talked to lately is reading it. One of my pickup phrases now is to tell women, ‘I’ve taken the self-vow of celibacy,’ to get their attention. Then, I joke, ‘I’ve been celibate for three days and it’s killing me. Want to help me break the vow?’”

  Luke laughs and offers me a fist bump. “You dog. Genius way to start a conversation about sex with a stranger! Then if she gets offended, it was all a joke, right?”

  He turns to the last page of the book. From a plastic sleeve on the inside of the back cover, he pulls out a thin thread bracelet, then extends it to me. “Here. Put this on.”

  Curious, I study the bright orange and green woven thread bracelet as I slide it onto my wrist. It looks like something a surfer would wear—not bad. “What’s this?”

  “The hardcover edition comes with this souvenir. If you wear it, that means you’ve decided to take ‘The Ultimate Challenge.’ Chrissie won’t be taking it.”

  “What’s the ultimate challenge?”

  “In exchange for a noble cause—world peace, ceasing hunger, finding a cure for cancer—you agree to become celibate for a year.”

  I shoot him a dirty look and whip the bracelet off my wrist. “Very funny. No thank you.” Holding the band in my palm, I try to fathom who’d be delusional enough to go for something like that.

  Guffawing, Luke clasps my wrist and slides the bracelet back on. “I’m serious, dude. The moment you say you’re giving up sex, opportunities will rain. It’s always like that.” He looks over his shoulder and whispers, “Everyone knows that wearing the bracelet is a cry for help. ‘Please, someone help me break this vow!’ If you ever see a woman wearing it, it’s a desperate attempt to get somebody to seduce her.”

  I consider his words, then slant him a glare. “That’s borderline creepy; are you a shrink or something?” I unwrap my baguette sandwich, realizing I’m hungrier than I thought and this will barely hold me until I make it home. “Besides, why do you have so much interest in that stupid book? You have a woman already.”

  He chuckles. “That’s exactly why, man. Hearing about so many people hungering for love makes me never take my luck for granted.” The amusement vanishes from his eyes. “Once, not too long ago, I was also one of those pathetic guys out there, looking for a stranger to hook up with and never see again.”

  Ouch. This dude seems to forget that I currently happen to be one of those pathetic guys.

  As if he’d read my mind, a flash of guilt crosses his expression. He pats my back with a little too much force. “I hope someday you get to see it for yourself, my friend. Finding the right woman is like having lived in the desert and moving next to a river.”

  I’m not sure it’s healthy to compare anyone to drinking water, or any other item indispensable to life. People are unreliable by nature and it isn’t safe to depend on anyone in particular.

  I grasp for some joke about being whipped to tease Luke. But before I come up with one, his eyes glaze and a grin stretches his mouth; Chrissie is returning from the restroom. He springs from his chair to greet her with a long kiss and my initial intention of teasing him turns into envy for his luck.

  Damn it, maybe this life of freedom has its downsides.

  Soon, the couple says goodbye. We don’t exchange numbers, or even last names, and I know that, just as with so many other travelers I’ve encountered, chances are I’ll never see them again.

  I take my time finishing my sandwich, planning to head home and give up on proving my refinement to Maxwell. I pick up my museum map and underneath lies Chrissie’s book, forgotten on the table.

  I lift my eyes, but there’s no sign of them anymore. I remember Chrissie mentioned something about going to see Canova’s Eros and Psyche statue next, so I check its location on my map and head to the Denon area. Maybe I can still catch up with them to return their book.

  Chapter 2

  Sophia

  The Louvre is my heaven.

  I’ve been at this museum only two hours and I’ve already cried four times. I could kiss each marvelous painting and hug every gorgeous marble statue. I can’t believe I’m staring at the masterpieces I’ve only seen in photographs all my life.

  Right now, I’m captivated by one of the small areas between exhibit halls. Gosh, as if the amazing art weren’t enough, this building itself is stunning! Multicolored marble floors; magnificent carved, vaulted ceilings, and neoclassical columns between the high, arched windows advertise this was a palace long before becoming a museum. (5)

  I lower my camera lens to capture the exquisite details at my feet when someone steps near me.

  “Are you taking a picture of the floor?” (6) The brunette with a pixie cut has such a contagious grin I don’t feel criticized by the comment.

  “Why yes!” I answer. “Have you ever seen such beautiful marble?” I lift my eyes and wave my hand around me. “Every inch of this place is divine! I could spend a whole day just looking at the building… And that doesn’t begin to cover my fascination with the art itself!”

  “You’re so enthusiastic about it I want to hire you as a tour guide!” She offers me a handshake which I accept. “I’m Chrissie.”

  “I’m Sophia. But I’d be a lousy tour guide, it’s my first time in the city, and I just arrived last night.”

  “Wow!” She titters. “You seriously must love art to be here through the jet lag!”

  “I adore the Louvre. It’s linked to the best memories of my childhood.”

  She shoots me a puzzled look. “I thought you said this was your first time in Paris.”

  Yep, I must sound like a crazy lady right now. How can I have a memory of the Louvre if this is the first time in my life I’ve come to Paris, and to Europe?

  I hang my camera strap over my shoulder. It’s much heavier than a cell phone, but this amazing art deserves my best effort as a photographer. “Like me, my father taught art history,” I explain. “When I was growing up, he spent hours sitting with me, browsing Louvre guides, telling me stories about all the artists.”

 
It’s true. Classical art became my way to bond with my father. And remembering my parents is the reason for this trip.

  You could say I’m here looking for my past.

  “Oh, you’re a history teacher; that explains your interest in old art,” Chrissie comments as we stroll together.

  I catch glimpses of splendid artwork from the corner of my eye. I wish so much Iris were here with me; soaking up all this beauty has to be good for her health. “I’m also interested in art because my hobby is painting.”

  “Really?” Chrissie gives me an appreciative once-over. “What type of painting?”

  “Mostly oil landscapes and still life, and I also occasionally draw charcoal portraits. But don’t ask me anything about that, please. After a couple of hours in this place, I feel embarrassed to ever show one of my paintings in public again.”

  “Are you traveling alone?”

  My answer sounds surreal even to me. “Yes. It’s my first time in Europe and I’m trying to figure out things all by myself.”

  Did I really just say that? How on earth did I end up here? Me, the woman who’s never had the head to be organized. Me, the woman who’s always let things happen to her instead of taking control and making things occur. I’m definitely trying to become a different person.

  “Where are you staying?” Chrissie asks.

  I don’t know why I’m opening up like this to a stranger. Maybe it’s the brain fog that comes with jet lag. Or maybe it’s because Chrissie has one of those warm smiles that tricks you into thinking you’ve met before. “At a Hilton. But I’ll only be here for a week. I’m supposed to head for the Alps after that.” I omit the part that I’m not even sure where in the Alps yet, and also that I still haven’t tracked down the lady I’m hoping to visit. If I don’t locate her, I’ll be in deep trouble. I guess I still have a long way to go before becoming organized.

  “We’re staying at the cutest studio you’ll ever see,” she says. “Everything is so damn cute around here!”

  “We?” I ask the question with my eyes.

  “I’m on my honeymoon,” she explains. And as if her words summoned him, a tall guy who resembles a football quarterback approaches and hugs her from behind, planting a kiss on her cheek.

  I resist my urge to say, “Aww!”

  Me, the eternal romantic.

  “I’m tired, babe,” he says, without making an effort to introduce himself to me. “Haven’t we had enough art for one day?”

  She pecks him on the lips. “Okay, love. Thanks for coming, even if this wasn’t your thing.” She kisses him again and I choke up.

  That glow of adoration in his eyes, and that unintended gloat of pride in her face when gazing at him is something I grew up watching. It’s amazing that in the past few years I allowed myself to forget it, to forget what real love is.

  My parents are my proof that soul mates exist. And that’s why I had to break my engagement with George.

  Chrissie remembers to introduce me to her man, Luke, before they say goodbye and stroll away holding hands.

  I wander to the next room while checking my museum map. I couldn’t figure out that handheld video game they call the electronic guide. When I headed here, I was looking for something, but I can’t remember what. That has been my morning so far. I follow my map, searching for a masterpiece I’ve always wanted to see—the Mona Lisa, The Venus de Milo, The Winged Victory—and on the way there, I keep getting sidetracked by other equally entrancing works.

  As I enter the room, a gasp escapes me and my whole skin fills with goose bumps. This is what I’ve been searching for. It’s my favorite statue in the world: Canova’s Eros and Psyche. The winged god of love waking up the mortal Psyche with a kiss. (7-9)

  Tears slide down my cheeks again as I take in the stunning white-marble statue. The artist is so majestically talented you can see the sleepiness in Psyche’s eyes and the love in his. I used to think Eros was an angel until my father explained the story. Eros—or Cupid—accidentally struck himself with the arrow of love and fell for Psyche. After she inhaled the fumes of Aphrodite’s beauty potion and died, Eros rushed to revive her with a love arrow and a kiss.

  I wish I were carrying my sketchbook and charcoal pencil to draw the statue, but I settle for second best. I sit on the wood and black leather bench against the window, grab my journal from my bag, and scribble the emotions the statue brings to me. The adoration in his eyes, the gentleness he shows in his embrace. The way her arms curve back to hold his face.

  That’s what I long for some day. Maybe I’ve spent my life sleepwalking and I need to wake up. And maybe that awakening could come from love. Real love, like the kind my parents had.

  Then doubt assails me. I want to believe love exists, and I saw it in my parents, but it has been so long. What if it was a mirage? Or what if it’s a rare privilege only a few mortals can achieve?

  I stow my journal and rise from the bench. Iris needs to see this—she’ll be delighted. I grab my camera and snap a few shots from different angles. Then, I step back, trying to absorb the essence of the masterpiece into my soul.

  “That is a beautiful statue.”

  I startle at the masculine voice behind me. Are Chrissie and Luke back? When I turn around I confirm that the man studying me is someone I’ve never seen before.

  Because if I had, I’d remember him.

  The stranger in front of me makes the god in the statue look ordinary by comparison. He’s tall and shows none of Eros’ slender fragility. The dark jacket he wears conceals his arm muscles but does nothing to hide his wide shoulders. His sandy hair is in need of a trim. His thin lips and straight nose carry a faint similarity to Eros, but a strong jaw, covered by faint stubble, ends the likeliness. Curiosity and approval mix in his green-hazel eyes as he studies me.

  A small-town girl in a big city, I immediately raise my guard. Many friends from my hometown in Indiana warned me that a woman traveling alone has to be careful with scammers, robbers, and rapists. This man is too well-groomed to be a robber. And he’s so good-looking I somehow doubt he’d need to resort to being a rapist. That leaves the scammer option.

  “You’re American, aren’t you?”

  His deep voice reaches me again and near-panic possesses me. To hell with the chance of him being a scammer. He’s hot—and that’s worse. During the months I’ve been alone, no man has made me doubt my decision to take the self-vow of celibacy. But this stranger is getting my attention in an alarming way.

  “Sorry, don’t you speak English?” When I don’t answer, he switches to French. “Parlez-vous francais, mademoiselle?”

  I must look like an idiot, staring at him. All I can manage is to shrug and shake my head, pretending I haven’t understood either language.

  And then he switches to Spanish. “Habla español, señorita?” Then to Italian. “Parla Italiano?”

  A trick my friend Chloe taught me to get rid of panhandlers and pushy street merchants returns to my mind. In a loud, clear tone, I bust out the only words I know in Serbo-Croatian. “Drago mi je da smo se upoznali.”

  That actually means “nice to meet you,” but it does the trick. A flash of confusion crosses the handsome stranger’s features and I take advantage of the moment to dash away.

  Chapter 3

  Trevor

  I must have a vein of masochism, because I end up staying another hour at the Louvre. Maybe this museum is like the slot machines in casinos. I read once that they’re so addictive because they only reward you once in a blue moon, as opposed to a soda machine, which rewards you every time you feed it money.

  Like a slot machine paying out the elusive jackpot on my pull, the Canova statue got me hooked and kept me hoping for more. I’ve never considered myself a sensitive man, but there was something captivating in the plain sheer beauty of the white marble figures. I can only imagine the strength it took to chip away the marble block, and the skills required to shape it.

  Too bad the cute, flaxen-haired girl admiri
ng the sculpture spoke no English; that would’ve been the first time my pickup line was sincere. What a blissful expression she had! Tears in her eyes, that glow of awe and joy in her face… I can’t remember the last time I felt that enthusiastic about something.

  And maybe she wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but she deserved a second look, with those big blue eyes and that soft, curvy body—better resembling the statues I’ve seen today, depicting real women, than anorexic models in modern magazines.

  After the Eros and Psyche statue I continued wandering through the exhibits searching for another piece that would impress me like that and looking for Chrissie and Luke to return their book.

  I also held on to a faint hope I might run into Cute Blonde again. Could I find a way to communicate, to test the waters with her? Sign language? Google translate?

  Giving up on all three goals, I head back to the cafeteria to leave the book with the cashier. Maybe Chrissie will return there sometime, looking for it.

  The moment I enter, my eyes collide with none other than Cute Blonde. She’s at the front of the line trying to pay for a coffee and a bagel.

  And she’s speaking English. Fluently.

  The cranky cashier is giving her the stink eye, shaking her head and pointing at the sign announcing the credit card machine is broken.

  “Pa’d card de credit aujourd’hui, madamme.” The cashier huffs with a frown.

  “I’m sorry, miss. I don’t speak French.”

  I have a strong suspicion that the cashier does speak English but just happens to be in a pissy mood and doesn’t feel like helping Cute Blonde.

  Cute Blonde gets at last what the sign means. “I’m so sorry. I already took a bite of my bagel and can’t return it. But I don’t have any cash with me.”

  The cashier gesticulates impatiently, asking her to surrender her food and go find an ATM. Of course, she speaks in fast French and Cute Blonde is getting even cuter from the look of complete bewilderment on her face.