Au Paris

by Rachel Spencer

  The plane door opened to a gray and hazy morning. We exited directly onto the tarmac, and the romantic in me loved every minute of it. It was like stepping straight off the plane not just into a different country, but into a different time, a more charming time. As I bounded down the metal steps, I would not have been overly surprised to be greeted by a singing café waiter. I imagined him, in a red scarf and black beret, passing out hot croissants while serenading the arriving flight with his rendition of “La Vie en Rose.” But I would have settled instead for a polite “Bonjour!” from the ground control crew, who waited at the bottom of the steps.

  Sadly they were not as excited as I was about my arrival, and ignored my “Bonjour” and warm smile. In fact, I was entirely dismissed as they shooed me away from the plane and toward the airport entrance.

  I couldn’t be so easily discouraged. The air was heavy with foggy moisture. It made my first view of the sky less than picturesque, but voilà: it was French air, in a French sky. Through the clouds, I couldn’t see the Eiffel Tower or any other sign of the city. But I knew it was out there. Paris was out there. And with it, boundless impending adventures.

  Inside Charles de Gaulle, I scoured the signs for the bathroom so I could freshen up and discovered that there were only two toilets for the hundreds of women pouring out of various international flights. Whose bright idea was that? I mean, I use two sinks in my daily getting-ready process and I’m only one person. How on earth are hordes of international women travelers supposed to accomplish necessary primping in such a space? Despite the limited facilities, I was, curiously enough, the only one interested in lugging my carry-on to the sink counter to peruse my selection of toiletries. Where were my fellow Texans? They probably found a bigger and better bathroom somewhere, but I had no notion to move now that I’d claimed a free sink. Free or not, I was surrounded by foreign faces and disheveled European women who were not entertained by my insistent effort to make myself at home in front of the public bathroom mirror. But I endured their glares and politely scooted my suitcase to one side whenever one of them deemed it appropriate to use the other sink. This was not often. Either they were too irritated to stand that closely to me, or more likely, washing hands is not part of their bathroom routine.

  After fussing with my powder and hair and mascara for what seemed like forever, I faced the fact that there’s only so much a girl can do to improve her appearance after a sleepless night, and I gave up. I had to get to baggage claim and find my way outside. I needed to get to the Vladescos’, and though I now possessed a slightly improved physical appearance, I didn’t want to arrive late.

  It might have been the jet lag, or the Parisian humidity, or my overactive imagination, but my luggage felt considerably heavier in France than it had in America. Hauling my various suitcases along behind me as gracefully as I could, I set off for ground transportation. In one of her many sets of instructions, Sarah had informed me that the easiest way for me to get to the Vladescos’ house was to take the Air France autobus that goes straight from the airport into Paris. Of course I had no idea how to get a ticket for this bus, and I hadn’t asked her about it. If she’d figured it out on her own, so could I. Dragging about 150 pounds of suitcase behind me, I wandered back and forth looking for any type of desk that resembled Air France ground transportation. Jet lag consumed me like a drug at this point, and I knew that tears of frustration were not far behind. Thirty minutes and three information desks later I learned that you buy the passes once you’re on the bus—which came every five minutes. C’est la vie.

  I scrambled onto the next bus, tripping over my luggage, and collapsed into the nearest empty seat. Traffic on the autoroute was at a complete standstill and and I dozed off. Jet lag–induced sleep is like anesthesia, like severe delirium. One minute you’re wide awake and the next everything turns into a hazy fog. Ahh, the welcome slumber! I faded in and out of coherence as we pushed through traffic.

  Awake . . . drowsy . . . asleep . . . awake . . . drowsy . . . asleep. Some time later, I was jolted awake again by the intercom announcing something in French.

  “Mmm,” I purred, loving the sing-songy poetry of the language. “L’Étoile—L’Arc de Triomphe,” the voice said over the intercom. It sounded familiar, and at first, I couldn’t figure out why.

  “L’Étoile—L’Arc de Triomphe,” the intercom repeated.

  “L’Étoile?!” I exclaimed to a man getting off the bus.

  “Oui!” he confirmed.

  That’s when it hit me. L’Étoile wasn’t just a pretty French word—it was my stop. I almost missed it! I grabbed my luggage, and wishing for a forklift, hauled my bags down onto the street corner. Gosh, it was hot outside. And where were we? I didn’t see any l’Arc de Triomphe. “Monsieur,” I said to the man departing in front of me, “Où est-ce que l’Arc de Triomphe?”

  He took me gingerly by the shoulders and turned me around to face a massive stone structure only yards away across the street. “Voilà, mademoiselle!” he said with a chuckle. Puzzled, I craned my neck upward to see the entirety of the structure. I stared for a few seconds more before realizing all that massive stone was one side of the Arc de Triomphe. This was Paris—this was my start—and I had finally arrived.

  Walking from the bus stop to the Vladescos’, I remembered the streets from the last time I saw Paris, about three years before. It was winter then, and the cafés that had been dark and shuttered against the winter elements were now bustling with animated faces and radiant crowds. Barren sidewalks that had been scattered with patches of dirt were now decorated with blossoms of all colors—tulips, lilies, roses and peonies, all the most beautiful flowers in the world. Along the streets, doors and windows were flung open to the warm air, the activity of the cafés and brasseries spilling out onto the sidewalks, where smiling summertime crowds lingered under large umbrella-shaded tables.

  The city was louder than in winter. The café dwellers with their expressive conversations and gesturing hands displayed the celebration that is summer in Paris. I watched them talk, using as much body language as voice, squeezing as much expression as possible into the small spaces where they dined. As I walked, the sounds around me amplified. I heard gregarious guffaws rather than laughter, and saw dancing faces rather than mere stares. Small, funny-shaped European cars buzzed through the streets, with horns simultaneously triggered by the gas pedal. I could have stood and watched the spectacle all afternoon, but I pressed on with my bags in tow, feeling as if it were all a dream—a good dream and one from which I never wanted to wake.

  On bike, rollerblades, and on foot, everyone enjoyed the sun. But laboring along with my luggage, I quickly became drenched in sweat. I’d hardly arrived and I already resented their blasé approach to life. Unaffected by heat, immune to perspiration—who were these people? The sunny skies did not match the haze of exhaustion that settled over me, and I wished for the gray skies I saw upon landing. I finally surrendered to the heat and pulled my hair, which by that time hung in damp clumps, into a tight ponytail, undoing all of the primping from the airport bathroom. Though it pained me, I was forced to relinquish my last effort to appear well groomed and professional upon greeting the family.

  Not surprisingly, I forgot my way to the Vladescos’. Unlike the grid systems of the U.S., the streets in Paris are centered around little gardens, parks, or fountains, like roundabouts. The streets that branched out in every direction were at first glance dizzyingly similar. I thought about calling the Vladescos for help, but remembered I didn’t have any cash, or their phone number. If Sarah knew, she would be giving me one of her I told you so looks. I ventured forward in faith. To remain positive, I tried taking in the scenery. To remain awake, I tried to concentrate on what I hoped was the proper direction. Every building appeared inviting, decked with tidy rows of perfect windows nestled behind tiny black cast-iron balconies. All of the windows had been flung open to the sunshine, and I couldn’t help but feel that today, they were open to me. I thought o
f it as my own personal welcome gift from Paris.

  Boulevard Pereire was my destination, and I searched up and down the streets for the right sign. In Paris, there were no street signs nailed to poles at the intersections. Instead, the street names were labeled on simple address plaques mounted for subtle view on every corner building, only if needed and only if the passing pedestrians were interested. It was just another way the city was romantic in everything it does. Just as I thought I had taken the wrong route, I spotted the sign for Boulevard Pereire—mostly covered by the leaves of a tree. And after a right turn and a few more steps, I arrived in front of number 37. I had found my way.

  I stood for a few minutes, breathing in and out in front of the bright peacock-blue double-doored entry, which stood as the face to the Vladescos’ four-story townhouse. It was a grandiose entrance, flanked on either side by thick stone sconces and crowned on top with lavishly carved stone. To the right of the door was a tastefully concealed intercom system, complete with a little gold button—a button that I was, after airport primping, transportation confusion, traffic jams, and pedestrian meandering, beyond late to press. I took one more deep breath, brushed the sweat off my forehead, reached out my finger toward the little gold button, and pushed.

  Chapitre Deux

  “Allô?” a voice called through the intercom. Even through the speaker, the voice was poised and refined. I guessed it was Estelle, the mother of the Vladesco household.

  “Hi, it’s Rachel. I’m here,” I chirped, wincing at the sound of my own voice. If I was trying to match Estelle’s cool tone, I’d already blown my cover.

  The blue door jarred open to reveal three of the five Vladescos—Estelle, Léonie, and Constantin. Constantin, the youngest and the family’s only son, stood in the doorway, closest to me.

  “Hi,” I said. “Constantin?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he openly looked me up and down with a snobbish judgment more like that of a grown Frenchman than a seven-year-old boy. He furrowed his brow, taking in my sweaty, blue jean–clad appearance, and delivered his calculated results with a precocious half-turned smile. I waited for him to blurt out a one-word summary, but he kept his expression, with his judgment, fixed on his face as my smile faded in his stare.

  Not to be intimidated, I looked toward Léonie, the middle child, who stood on the steps of the stone entryway. She stood shyly between her brother and Estelle with a gaze kinder and softer than Constantin’s. I could tell she was thinking, though I didn’t know what. She had a pensive smile, and I understood from it we would get along just fine.

  “Hi, Léonie,” I said.

  Before she could reply, Estelle stepped forward, grinning coolly, and whisked Léonie to her side.

  “Welcome, Rachel,” Estelle said. She kept her hand on Léonie’s shoulder.

  “Hi,” I said. I nudged my bags forward.

  With a casual nod of the head, she shooed her children along and gestured me inside.

  “Come in,” she said, and closed the door behind me.

  The lights were off inside the house, and the sunlight cast shadows through the windows. I was relieved to be in the midst of air-conditioning and instantly felt a chill as the sweat cooled on my skin.

  “Your plane was delayed?” Estelle asked, incorrectly assuming that my tardiness was a result of the airlines. I glanced at my watch, which was still on Houston time, and added seven hours. I was about two hours past my expected arrival time. I wanted to lie and blame the airlines, which would have been an easy alibi. But dishonesty wasn’t the best foundation to lay for the next six weeks of caring for her children.

  “No,” I replied. “We landed right on time, but I got lost in the airport, and had trouble buying my AirFrance bus ticket.”

  “You buy the tickets on the bus, non?” Estelle asked. Her tone was innocent enough, but I felt foolish in my mistake just the same. Still, I smiled and nodded my head, desperate to get off on the right foot. I had no way of knowing it at the time, but that gesture would become my ultimate defense mechanism for the remainder of the trip: When in doubt, smile and nod.

  Constantin and Léonie politely took my bags up the front entry steps to the main floor, and Estelle, gracious and forgiving of my tardiness, motioned for me to follow her to the kitchen. Even though it was still early in the afternoon, I could have gone to sleep right then and there. I was nearly shaking from exhaustion and this was hardly the way I’d intended to make my first impression. But I didn’t exactly have a free night at the Ritz to refresh and rejuvenate beforehand. So I tightened my ponytail and followed Estelle, observing the surroundings of my new home.

  Here in the grandeur of the Vladesco house, the windows welcomed me just as grandly as those I’d seen on every building walking from the bus stop. Opening in pairs, they were easily the height of a normal door, but leaner because in Paris, a window, like most anything else, was nothing short of a tall and elegant beauty. The windows were drawn open, revealing the world outside—the blue sky, the sweet summer air, the bright green of trees and vines that decorated the Vladescos’ private garden patio. The June breeze swept in and out, blending the air of two worlds into one. The air was clean, sweet, and easy, playfully ruffling the regal canary-colored draperies that billowed to the floor below in pools of rich fabric. A sliding glass door that ran the length of the back kitchen wall opened to the outside patio, which sported a rather grand wooden patio table and chairs, covered by a large, shaded umbrella. From the remains on the table, it looked as though the family had already eaten, sans tardy nanny. Estelle pointed me through the door to the patio table where they’d left an empty place setting for me.

  The garden, as the Vladescos called it, was a tiny wood-decked triangle of land that I, as a suburban-dwelling American, would have called merely a patio or a courtyard, to be romantic at best. However, in Paris, it was equivalent to real estate gold to come upon any residential property with a private outdoor area. It took me a while to realize this. Alex, the father and resident chef, was particularly proud of his garden. And in the summertime, the grill was his outdoor kitchen. Years ago, Sarah boasted of Alex’s culinary displays and when I visited, I tasted them for myself. We ate wild boar with cranberry relish; hearty, meaty potatoes of all sorts; wild mushrooms—dark, woodsy things. But of course after three years and many seasons past, I’d forgotten the wonderment of Alex’s gourmet goldmine. Quickly, I remembered. And quickly I realized that, as evidenced by the sliding glass door opened from the kitchen to the garden, and the lid of the grill sitting sideways on the ground to cool, Alex had increased his domain since my winter visit. He had progressed with the seasons from hunter to gardener. I stood in front of the table piled with half-filled platters and nearly empty bowls, all brightly colored mixes of the season’s freshest recipes. It was the first introduction I had—and one of many—to the savory seasonings of summer in the garden, chez Vladesco.

  Just as I sat down, I noticed the reclined chef, resting in a lounge chair au soleil. His smug expression, pursed lips, and squinted eyes told me he was satisfied, if not uncomfortably full, from his lunchtime symphony of grilled meat-and-vegetable kebabs.

  “Oh, Alex!” I said. “I didn’t see you at first. How are you?”

  “Cooking,” he murmured without opening his eyes or even raising his head. And that was the end of our exchange.

  With one word, Alex taught me an important lesson in French manners and culture—or in the manners and culture of Alex, I should say, which would prove more important to me than that of the country as a whole. In the South, polite small talk is an integral part of a meal, or of any exchange. In France, Alex’s terse reply taught me it was not appropriate to interrupt a man during his meal, and especially inappropriate to interrupt the resting period that follows. Visiting—completely welcomed. Interruption—deplorable. It was clear that Alex was not in the mood for visiting. I served myself and chewed in silence, while Alex rested off to the side, continuing his “cooking,” which by t
hen resembled nothing more than miserable sweating.

  As I helped Estelle tidy the kitchen after lunch, I realized someone was missing. At fourteen years old, Diane was the oldest of the Vladesco children and the lone teenager. I was looking forward to spending time with her. She was too old to need me in the traditional “nanny” sense, but I thought maybe I could become her friend in a big sister kind of way.

  “Diane’s not home?” I asked Estelle.

  Estelle continued scraping bell pepper and carrot off the dirty plates and into the trashcan. “I wonder why she hasn’t come down,” she replied, arching her eyebrows and turning the corners of her mouth upward into a wry smile. I couldn’t tell if she smiled to cover slight embarrassment or irritation. Part of me believed her to be humored by the situation, which I didn’t understand at all. But Estelle was a French woman, and French women never tell their secrets.

  As if to illustrate Estelle’s point, the telephone rang, but just as she reached for it, it stopped ringing. She shrugged and gave me that smile again, but I understood it this time. “Teenagers,” the smile said. A few minutes later, as we were drying the dishes, Diane rounded the corner into the kitchen and smiled with awkward excitement, as she was of the age when it’s not cool to show too much emotion of any kind. I was struck by how adult she looked. The last time I’d seen her, she was eleven, and though beautiful then, still very much a little girl. But she had since grown into a tall, lithe beauty. Her long, glossy hair fell straight down her back. She had her father’s mouth, with his full lips. Her eyes though, were Estelle’s, accentuated by prominent arched, dark eyebrows. And though she was young, her eyes were cunning, and full of the secrets of a French woman. As I swept her in for a hug, I couldn’t help but wonder what sorts of secrets she was keeping behind those eyes, and the twinge of nerves I’d felt a few minutes before turned into a surge of intimidation. The girl was nine years my junior, yet her look, her manners, even her movements, were more grown up than mine. I could handle the youthful exuberance of Léonie and Constantin, but could I handle the turbulent hormones of a fourteen-year-old?