Love Me in Paris

by D Pichardo-Johansson

  “It’s more than that. The vow is life and death to me.”

  My fingers freeze on her shoulders. “What do you mean?”

  “Iris’ health is the cause on behalf of which I’m taking the Ultimate Challenge.” She pauses, as if trying to decide if she could trust me with a confession. “I’m very superstitious. I feel that if I can carry this year to perfection, I’ll help contribute to Iris’ cure. And if I break it, she will die.”

  My jaw drops, and so do my hands from her back. “You know that’s not true, don’t you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s dead serious to me.” She turns around, sets her wineglass on the floor and stands up to meet me at eye level. “This is the first time in my life I’ve committed to a cause with all my being. This vow is a promise not only to myself but also to my best friend. I’m not breaking it even if it kills me.”

  Something shifts in her countenance, and I see strength and determination in her I haven’t seen before. Nothing is left of the fragility and teary eyes that got my attention near the Canova statue. The woman in front of me has the will of a force of nature.

  A terrible realization dawns on me. I’m not getting lucky tonight. Or tomorrow.

  Or ever.

  Chapter 6

  Sophia

  Trevor is a genius, but also a little OCD about organization. The morning after meeting his friends, he sits with me in my hotel lobby and reads every single letter, postcard, and journal entry about Paris I carry with me—all I could save from when Aunt Margie’s basement flooded. With a seriousness that has nothing to do with the jovial guy I had dinner with last night, he ruminates on them, memorizes them, draws several drafts of diagrams, and then comes up with seven days of routes my parents must’ve taken. This trip I’ll be seeing Paris in the exact same order my parents did. We’ll cover whatever we can the rest of this week before I leave for the Alps, and then I’ll finish the remainder alone after my return.

  Later that afternoon, after drawing those routes on my map, Trevor trains me on how to become the perfect traveler. First, he makes me consolidate my two bags into one, with the purpose of traveling lighter.

  He frowns at my bulky rolling suitcase. “The definition of carry-on luggage is smaller here and they’ll make you check that if you try to take domestic flights. Let’s get rid of it.”

  The first thing to go is my heavy camera after he convinces me it’s not any better than the camera on my phone. “Also, forget about travel books, you can find all that info online. Every piece of paper that’s not of sentimental value gets photographed and the original thrown away.”

  I’m a little worried about my unreliable Internet connection, but I obey nonetheless and am amazed at how much space that has saved me. Using Karla’s wardrobe advice, I carefully select my clothes and shoes to reduce my luggage to one red duffel bag. I designate a side pocket to safely stash my mother’s letters and my old journals.

  Next, Trevor walks me around my hotel’s neighborhood to familiarize me with the essential places around it—the closest Metro station, a laundromat, a convenience store for cheaper snacks than what’s available in the hotel. I’m glad to find out I’m not that far away from a post office, so I can send Iris a postcard and mail home my camera and the poster Trevor gifted me yesterday, or even better, mail them to work since I won’t be home to receive them.

  He then takes me to buy what he calls the most important accessory for a traveler: a money belt I can wear under my clothes to keep my credit card, an ID, and some cash. It’s also where I’ll carry my passport when it’s not in the hotel safe, and where I’ll place my cell when I’m not taking pictures.

  “Carrying any form of purse or bag is a magnet for thieves,” he explains. “Also, a money belt ensures that, even in the worst-case scenario someone robs your bags, you’ll still have the essentials with you.”

  As the last step, he takes me to a communications store to buy a local prepaid SIM card for my phone. Luckily, my cell turns out to be “factory unlocked” and suitable for it, thanks to tech-wiz Ezra, who gifted it to me.

  “By having a French SIM card, you can have a local phone number and Internet access even in the places where there’s no free Wi-Fi. No roaming charges to fear.”

  Wow. This guy really knows what he’s doing.

  * * *

  The next day, we officially start the tour. Trevor infers that my art-fanatic father began their trip at the Louvre, which I’m happy to return to, this time crossing off the items my mother refers to in her letters. I can’t help getting into teaching mode and babble on and on about the pieces we see. Trevor’s attention seems sparked at times, but overall he’s quite reserved.

  We spend the rest of the day close to the Louvre, covering the nearby attractions my parents saw after the museum. I fall instantly in love with the gorgeous Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel. Stark white, it is crowned by bright golden soldier statues flanking the green copper quadriga of horses guided by Peace as a charioteer. (16,17) I spend so long taking pictures at each one of the beautiful carvings on it that Trevor has to peel me away from it so we can see the rest of the items on the list—the outer grounds of the Louvre, the Royal Palace and its gardens. (18, 19)

  I can’t help noticing Trevor’s mood has been less cheerful. He’s polite and keeps his promise to be my translator and guide, but seems to be going through the motions without the enthusiasm he showed the other night at his place.

  “Are you okay?” I ask as we cross the Tuileries Garden—the least green garden I’ve ever seen. It has no flowers, and contains only a small amount of grass you’re not supposed to step on, so we walk on wide dust paths. “You haven’t smiled much today.”

  “I’m fine, I just tend to get serious when I’m completing a task,” he grumbles. “What we’re doing here is kind of an archeological exploration and needs some thought.”

  I nod. “Yes. You can say I’m here on this trip trying to find my past.”

  His frown deepens. “Good for you. But I believe the past is dead and shouldn’t be dug into. My new goal is to look only into the future.”

  Okay, that confirms it. Someone’s grumpy.

  At another time, his words might’ve made me uncomfortable, but nothing can get me down today. I’m so excited I have trouble speaking coherently.

  Before I go to bed, I call Iris to wish her luck on her surgery. Despite Iris’ objections, Chloe has flown from Chicago to Florida for two days, to feed her nutritional shakes and “clean her energy” before and after the operation. The two of them bombard me with questions about my trip, and especially about Trevor.

  “It seems like you scored gold with that new friend-slash-tour guide,” Iris comments while adjusting her wig of the week, a jet-black long bob.

  “I know, but something doesn’t make sense,” I mumble. “How can this man be so high-functioning, yet be also an aimless trust fund baby, living off his parents’ wealth with no desire to contribute to society?” It hits me that the night at his place I shared my life story, yet I know very little about his. Is there more to Trevor than I’ve figured out up to now?

  “And I’m glad this isn’t a guy I’ll continue to see and befriend in the future,” I continue. “This degree of micro-management and over-protection is exactly what I’m trying to avoid repeating in my life.”

  “Ugh, you’re right!” Chloe chimes in. They’re keeping the laptop far away as we Skype, for her peace of mind, and I can see her wiggling her hands around Iris as she performs Reiki healing. “You had enough over-protection with George.”

  “Yes! Everybody seems to think I don’t know how to take care of myself!”

  I really need to shed the label of “fragile” I acquired from the world after I lost my parents.

  “Well, just promise me you’ll forget all about me and my surgery and enjoy your trip as much as you can,” Iris says. “Imagine that since I can’t be there, it’s your duty to have twice the fun —for you and for me.”

&n
bsp; Shoot, talk about pressure. Blinking away tears, I swallow hard. “Sure, Iris. I promise.” Keeping that promise won’t be easy knowing she’ll be in the operating room.

  We say goodbye and end the call, and I force my excited brain to shut down so I can try to sleep.

  Chapter 7

  Trevor

  “This woman is a maniac. Did I ever really think she was vulnerable prey I could charm with some directions and sweet words?”

  I sit on the River Commerce Fountain at the Place de la Concorde, (20) waiting for Sophia, who’s walked back to the Tuileries garden in search of a public restroom. Over our Skype call, Maxwell is laughing so hard I’m afraid he’s going to bust a gut. He leans over his desk and heaves in laughter, while slapping a hand on it. He only Skypes me from his work computer—an anti-technology rebel, he refuses to carry a cell phone.

  “You deserve this so much!” He wipes away a tear of laughter. “Next time you try to get a woman in your bed, first get to know her enough to at least verify she’s not an ex-con, a psycho—or someone who’s taken a vow of celibacy.”

  Maxwell is having way too much fun with the fact that I’m stuck as Sophia’s city guide without any hope that she’ll ever put out. Of course, I haven’t told him the part that I failed to clear up the misunderstanding that I’m celibate too. A morally scrupulous, disciplined former soldier like Max would nail me for that.

  “Maybe I should check out that book and consider taking the vow,” Max jokes, his chest still shaking with chuckles. “I’ve been alone for so long, I might as well put my celibacy to work for a cause.”

  He’s obviously kidding. A no-nonsense research physician, Dr. Maxwell Steele is the extreme opposite of the hippie-dippy personality who would go for the foolishness in that book. But I’m glad to hear Max’s light tone when talking about being single, hinting that he’s starting to recover from losing his wife years back. My annoyance has been worth it for the privilege of hearing his elusive wholehearted laughter.

  “What’s so painful about touring the city with her anyway?” Max asks, finally recomposing himself.

  “Sophia’s like the Energizer Bunny on a sugar high.” I’m not kidding. She’s almost a foot shorter than me and claims she’s not athletic, yet I have to make an effort to keep up with her during our landmark scavenger hunt.

  Today, Sophia and I met in front of the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel (16, 17) and then toured west, aiming to end the day at Arc du Triomphe de l’Etoile, and hit all the attractions in between.

  “For the past two days she’s dragged me through every single stop on her list, and every time we find the next one, she jumps up and down and does this happy dance.” I flap my free hand. “God, does she have any idea how much we’re going to be walking? She should save her energy.”

  “Happy dance?” Max’s grin shows he’s really enjoying my suffering.

  “You should’ve seen her here at the Place de la Concorde.” I wave my hand around. “She made me circle it three times while she ran back and forth between the two fountains and circled the Egyptian obelisk. She took a million pictures of every freaking gold-leaf trimmed light post (20, 21). Not even the stories of guillotines and beheadings that happened here put a dent in her exhilaration.”

  “She must know those stories. You mentioned she’s a history teacher.”

  “Oh, her history teacher knowledge is not enough; now she also has to Google search every place and read about its history and architecture. Why did I talk her into getting mobile Internet service? It’s exhausting.”

  Truthfully, she looks adorable as she celebrates each find. My sour-grapes attitude keeps me from dwelling on how much I regret that she’s off-limits.

  Under different circumstances, I would’ve enjoyed these days. Sophia is a walking Wikipedia and has an amazing eye for detail, able to find something unique in even the most average art piece we run into. For example, when we returned to the Louvre, I understood for the first time the genius that even the simplest of those paintings took. I was in awe as she pointed out the soft velvet, shiny satin, and crisp lace in the clothing of one of the portraits (22). How on earth did the artists recreate those texture effects? And they didn’t even have real paint back then! As I learned from her, they made their colors with mineral pigments and oils. Despite my sour face, I admit I had more fun that day than I’d ever had in a museum.

  Yes, I admit I envy her enthusiasm. I haven’t felt passionate about anything in a long time—even before that infamous day at the law firm. And I don’t think I’ve ever been that enthusiastic about anything. I’ve always approached life with caution. The less you care about something or someone, the less it hurts you when you lose them.

  “I’m a man of my word and I won’t take back my promise to orient her to the city, but I’m glad she’s leaving Saturday,” I vent to Max on the screen as I search for Sophia in the distance. “I’m dying here. My feet are killing me. I’m touring places I’ve already seen a dozen times; and all that with zero hope of getting lucky.” Never mind seducing her, anyway. By the end of this day I’ll be so exhausted I’ll have no energy to move, let alone flaunt my seduction skills.

  I spot Sophia walking in my direction and end my call with Maxwell to continue our tour.

  We take a detour to hit the Grand and Petit Palais and to get a better view of the golden statues on top of the Alexander III Bridge (23). Then we return to find Champs-Élysées Avenue (24), and stride the entire length to its end at Arc Du Triomphe. (25) Today’s walk would tire human feet by itself. Yet every place we reach, she circles again and again—all that in addition to her happy dance. What stamina! I don’t think she missed photographing a single inch of the carvings on Arc Du Triomphe. (26)

  On the way back, strolling the Champs-Élysées in reverse, we sit at one of the ridiculously expensive restaurants in route to have glace. Glace, or French ice cream, is the only thing we can afford here. I warned Sophia that we shouldn’t eat close to the famous landmarks where every sticker price goes up, but her blood sugar reserves are the size of a peanut. When she announces she’s hungry, we have to drop everything in pursuit of nourishment.

  “Oh, my God, this is so good!” She tastes her lemon glace again and again. “How am I ever going to return to regular ice cream after this?”

  Her delight makes me smile against my will.

  “There’s that smile! I was wondering what had happened to it!”

  “It’s there. Just buried under the five million steps we’ve taken.”

  She touches my hand. “Thank you so much for doing this, and for being here. I probably could’ve figured out the maps on my own, but it’s so much easier with you. And your company has forced me to keep it together; if I were alone, I’d be crying every hour.”

  She lightens the statement with a wink, and I soften a little. She’s not a bad gal. It’s not her fault that her friend brainwashed her with that weird book. Maybe I should set the record straight about her misunderstanding, let her know I’m not really following that vow.

  “You’re welcome. Has the archeological exploration been worth it?”

  She digs at the bottom of her cup, chasing the last drops of her melted glace. “Oh, it’s been amazing! I have so much to journal about tonight. My favorite part is how everything is still the way my mother described it. This must be one of the few places in the world that looks almost the same as it did twenty years ago—or a hundred years ago.” She sends me an apologetic grimace. “You said that the past is dead and you only care about the future? Well, I’m the opposite. I wish I could return to the past and live there.”

  I have a hunch she’s talking about returning to the past before the plane crash and something tugs at my heart. I study her. “This trip is a big deal for you, isn’t it?”

  “You have no idea.” Giving up on her now bone-dry cup, she eyes me cautiously and lowers her voice. “I grew up reading those letters and journal entries over and over, trying to imagine my parents’ last
days. My parents became legendary to me—Greek gods, and this place their Olympus. For me, coming here has been like a pilgrimage to a holy land.”

  Poor Sophia. She has idealized her parents because she didn’t get to live with them for long. I bet if she had, by now they would’ve clashed a good number of times and she would have a lukewarm, love-hate—or hate-hate—relationship with them like the rest of us. Like Dad used to say after Mom moved away: humans are the least reliable beings in the world. If you count on them, they’re sure to disappoint you.

  But for the first time it hits me that Sophia was only a kid when that plane crash happened. “How old were you when they died?”

  “I was twelve.”

  Despite myself, I’m touched, imagining her as a little girl. “And you’ve been reading those letters since then?”

  She looks over her shoulder, as if afraid of other people overhearing, and nods. “They never recovered the plane from the ocean; whenever life got difficult as a kid, I’d fantasize they escaped the crash or never boarded and they were somewhere in France with amnesia. I always imagined them together and in love, knowing they’d left something behind, but not able to remember what.” She stops. “I guess coming here and finding myself is the closest I can get to my lifelong fantasy of finding them.” Blushing lightly, she looks away. “I know it’s ridiculous.”

  Damn it, I’d sworn I was done wasting time with her, and was even considering how to escape her before Saturday. But she’s back to giving me the vulnerable little-girl eyes and now I have to help her. Did she say earlier her parents’ names were Patrick and Nadia Paige? It would only take one phone call to assign my firm’s private detective to dig up some airline records and confirm her parents did board the plane and give her some closure.