Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  Jay takes me by the hand and walks us over to the woman. He brightly says, “Bonjour,” gives her a kiss on each cheek, tries to introduce me—

  And then gets slapped.

  Uh-oh. I think I’ve seen this episode before.

  Jay doesn’t miss a beat. He puts his hand over his cheek, smiles at the blonde, and begins speaking to her in rapid French. His voice is warm and conciliatory, though his words are mostly gibberish to me. Apart from the occasional elle and je suis, I am completely lost.

  The blonde yells in French, then switches to … Italian, maybe?

  His French then sounds placating. When I hear him say the name Melissa, I smile and wave to the woman. She returns my smile with a glare as Jay keeps talking.

  About a minute later, Jay once again kisses her on each cheek, only this time she kisses back, placated, and utters a crisp “Au revoir.”

  And she walks away.

  What the hell was that all about?

  Jay smiles at me warmly, takes my wheeled luggage, puts his arm around me, and brightly says, “We could take the train in, but I’m thinking a taxi. Are you hungry?”

  “Wait. Who was that?”

  “Oh, that was Simone. She’s very high maintenance. Forget about her.”

  “But she slapped you.”

  “Oh,” he says, as though he had already forgotten that part, “well, I probably deserved it. Let’s get you some crêpes.”

  “Okaaaayyyy,” I say, dragging out the words in the hopes I get more of an explanation.

  Jay turns to me, kisses me lightly on the forehead, then leans in to almost whisper, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too.” Though my Spidey sense is up.

  Jay looks me in the eye mischievously, then proposes, “You know, instead of crêpes, we could go straight to my place and get you settled in.”

  Who could resist such a suggestive suggestion?

  We take a cab to his apartment in the eighteenth arrondissement (a French word that basically just means “section of the city”) and settle in.

  We settle in for several hours.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Around noon, I awake from a catnap in the nicest sheets I think I’ve ever slept on in my life, and with an afterglow that could last until Christmas. A note is on Jay’s pillow:

  I went out to get picnic supplies. Was going to wake you, but you looked so cute. Back in a bit.

  I sigh contentedly and lie back down in the bed.

  I’m in Paris, and for the first time in a long time I feel excited about the day and the future.

  I look over at the light streaming through Jay’s bedroom windows. The sunlight feels different from home—brighter. I know Paris isn’t called the City of Light because of the sun, but today it sure feels like it could be.

  And it’s not just the sun. Everything here feels different. More romantic. Better.

  I stare out of Jay’s window at the stone buildings across the street, with their bow windows sticking out from well-preserved grayish-white rock, and their ornate cast-iron balconies. What an insane view. And this isn’t some hotel where you pay through the nose for a view for one night; this is just Jay’s day-to-day Paris view. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. Breathtaking.

  I watch a woman in an apartment across the way watching TV in her robe and slippers. How can anyone here ever have time for television when there’s nothing but amazing things to look at everywhere you turn? I mean, she could be getting groceries right now! Doesn’t she know that?

  Jay lives in a two-bedroom apartment in Montmartre, near the trendy Abbesses area, and near the Sacré-Coeur. The apartment was built well over a hundred years ago, but it has clearly been restored: all of his floors are dark, shiny hardwood, set in a diagonal pattern, and no cracks anywhere in the walls. (I live in Los Angeles—earthquake territory. If you don’t have cracks in your walls, your house was just built last Tuesday.)

  I ease out of the million-thread-count white sheets to grab my black J.Crew dress from the floor. I slip it on and make my way into the living room to get my luggage.

  While his living room still has the slight feel of a bachelor pad (what is it with men and giant flatscreen TVs that take up an entire wall?), it looks like something out of a men’s magazine that would be entitled “How to Lull Your Women into a False Sense of Security.” He has tastefully decorated in earth tones and reds, and the couch and matching chairs are overstuffed and comfy. Coffee-table books are set out on his dark wood coffee table—one of Paris at night, and one of Paris in the day, plus an assortment of glossy art books from museums around the world.

  In our haste to get to the bedroom, I left my suitcase on the floor by his front door. I wheel my suitcase into his bedroom, open it to find my makeup bag, and head into his bathroom.

  The bathroom has stone tiles of various shades of green, and a green, stand-alone tub with gold claws. You know those gold talons at the bottom of bathtubs that look ridiculous in the middle of the suburbs of America? Those same feet look completely appropriate here, and positively decadent.

  I peruse his shower caddy, which only holds basic shampoo and soap. How on earth can someone own a tub like this and possibly use the shower? Then I notice that he has three bottles of bubble bath in a basket on a wooden stand near the sink.

  Nice.

  I open the first bubble bath, a clear bottle with purple liquid inside and the word Lavande scrolled on the label. I sniff—lavande must mean “lavender.” The next bottle says Rose in purple calligraphy on its pastel pink label. One sniff brings me back to New Year’s Eve, when Seema and I regularly check out the rose floats that will be in the Tournament of Roses parade the next day. The third bottle says Satsuma, which I already know is orange.

  Gotta love European men. The only American men I know who have bubble bath have girlfriends or wives to go with …

  Wait a minute.

  I can’t help myself. I slam his bathroom door shut, then quickly open his medicine cabinet, to look for …

  Again, wait a minute. What am I doing? This poor man is letting me stay in his home alone, and I’m rewarding his trust by rifling through his things? At what point in my life did I get so suspicious that I have to paw through a man’s medicine cabinet in search of …

  I knew it!

  I pick up a pink toothbrush. Hah! No man uses a pink toothbrush! Not even a metrosexual from Paris. (Or at least I don’t think so. Of course, I may have read once that in France the baby boys’ rooms can be decorated in pink and the baby girls’ rooms can be in blue. Or was that Sweden? Brazil maybe?) Wait, he also has condoms in here. Which he must be using with … Oh, right. Me. Okay, so he gets a pass on those.

  Here’s a big bottle of moisturizer. Do men use moisturizer? Is a big bottle a good thing? I read the label, but of course it’s all in French and it neither says homme or femme anywhere, so I don’t know if it’s for men or women.

  I pop the cap open to sniff. Smells like cucumber. Crap—is cucumber masculine or feminine?

  “I’m home!” I hear from the living room.

  Shit. I quickly, yet silently, close the medicine cabinet and feel complete embarrassment and shame wash over me.

  “I’m in here!” I yell, then take a moment to flush the toilet and wash my hands.

  I walk out to meet Jay in the kitchen, where he unloads groceries and wine from reusable canvas bags. “Wow. Look at all this!” I say, taking a baguette and holding it up. “They actually have baguettes in France.”

  “Boules too,” Jay says cheerfully. “But I figure we’ll start you off with the classics.” He takes the baguette from me and places it on a wooden cutting board. He leans in to give me a quick kiss. “How did you sleep?”

  “Like a rock,” I say as I watch him pull a bread knife from his knife block and begin slicing the baguette. “Sorry to conk out like that. I was tired.”

  “No worries. You stayed awake for the really important part,” he jokes, wagging his eyebrows up an
d down.

  I blush. Yes, I did. I did indeed.

  “Can I help?”

  “I’m good,” he says as he finishes slicing the baguette into sandwich-size rolls, “although if you want to grab a bottle of white from the fridge, that would be great. Do you like a little ham or a lot of ham on your sandwich?”

  “I like a lot of everything on my sandwich.”

  “My kind of girl,” he says, all smiles as he unwraps the ham he just bought. “I got this from the local charcuterie, along with Brie from the cheese shop, of course, and a ripe tomato. I figure we can go to the Champ de Mars park, have a picnic near the Eiffel Tower, then head to the Musée d’Orsay, which is open until six today. Does that work?”

  “C’est parfait,” I tell him, trying to show off what little French I’ve learned in the past few days.

  “Great,” he says, continuing to assemble the sandwiches. “I couldn’t get reservations for that restaurant you wanted until Sunday night, so I figured tonight we’ll either head to the Latin Quarter for dinner or hit L’Escargot Montorgueil. What do you think?”

  “Whatever you want,” I say, snagging a thin slice of ham from his pile. “They both sound amazing.”

  “We’ll play it by ear. I definitely want to hit Chartres and Notre Dame tomorrow. We’ll want to avoid it Sunday, unless you want to go to mass. Wait—do you go to mass?”

  “Usually just at Christmas.”

  “Great. Then we’ll do the Louvre Sunday. So how long do I have you for? When’s your return flight?”

  I was dreading this question. I didn’t know how long he wanted me to stay when he invited me out, and I was too shy to ask him at the time. I was worried that I’d scare him off if I stayed too long, but that I wouldn’t have any shot at a relationship if I left too quickly. So I just didn’t book a ticket back.

  Plus, as usual, I am broke, and I figured the longer I can leave that charge off my credit card, the better.

  “I booked an open ticket,” I tell him, careful to watch his response and see if he gets weird. “I wasn’t sure how long I’d hang out with you, and I didn’t know if I would feel like taking the Chunnel to London or a train to Barcelona or Venice or … wherever the wind takes me.”

  That sounded noncommittal and unstalkerlike, I proudly think to myself.

  Jay nods. “Cool,” he says, finishing up his sandwich. “I say Latin Quarter tonight. Snails later in the weekend.”

  Cool. He said cool. We’re all cool. Okay then. I was worried for no reason.

  His doorbell buzzes a few moments later. Jay wipes his hands clean with a dishtowel. “Can you pick out a wine and pack it and the sandwiches in the canvas bag? I’ll go see who that is.”

  “Sure.” I go to his fridge.

  “Oh, and the corkscrew is in the left drawer!” Jay yells from his living room.

  I hear him open the door, then a woman’s voice speaking quietly in French, and him responding by whispering.

  Suddenly, everything’s quiet in the living room.

  Shit. I knew it. What is French for Don Juan? I poke my head out of the kitchen doorway to ask, bracing for the next attack of a woman spurned. “Which is the left drawer?”

  Jay turns to me and says in a normal voice, “Sorry. Left of the sink.”

  I watch as a young woman, who could be Audrey Hepburn’s grand-daughter with her flawless ivory skin and dark pixie cut (and no one should look that good in jeans. I’m just saying), sees me for the first time.

  Here we go …

  Halle’s face lights up. She speed-walks in, gives me a huge hug, then kisses me once on each cheek. “[Something-something-something] Los Angeles!” the girl declares with glee. Then she continues talking excitedly to me. I nod several times, pretending I have any sort of clue what she’s saying to me. I’m pretty sure at one point she asks me, “Oui?” So I answer her in the affirmative. (Oui. Sure. Why not?)

  At this, she lifts her arms joyously, gives me another kiss on each cheek, then turns to leave, speaking a mile a minute at Jay, giving him a quick kiss good-bye as well, then walking out into the hallway with an “Au revoir!”

  Jay laughs to himself, returning her “Au revoir!” and closing the door behind her.

  I laugh. “Okay, what was that?”

  “That was Justine. And she loves you.”

  “Good to know. And why exactly does she love me?”

  “Because you’re American, as is her boyfriend. Plus, you didn’t leave me at the altar. So you get points from her for that.” He passes me to return to the kitchen. “Let me get the corkscrew.”

  “Boyfriend? So you never dated her?”

  Jay seems startled. “Justine? God, no. She’s nineteen. Let me get us some plastic cups, and we’re outta here.”

  Just me being paranoid. Whew.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Within minutes, we are out of the apartment and strolling hand in hand down Rue des Abbesses. He tells me about his neighborhood, which is apparently a pretty hip spot, and swarming with artists. He shows me the house where Picasso lived, then we take le métro over to the Champ de Mars for a lovely picnic with lots of wine, and even more kissing.

  The Champ de Mars is a park in the seventh arrondissement that surrounds the Eiffel Tower. It’s sort of like Paris’s version of Central Park and takes up about sixty acres, right in the middle of the city, which ends on one side with the Seine River flowing past. Like the rest of Paris, it is insanely beautiful, filled with bursts of colorful flowers, greenery, and views of the buildings in the city.

  Again, how does this city stay in business? How can people ever go to work or get anything done when there is so much beauty to drink in?

  We find a spot on a lawn near some flower beds with an incredible view of the Eiffel Tower. “How about here?” Jay asks.

  “Amazing,” I say, pulling out my phone and snapping a picture of the tower as Jay pulls out a small plaid blanket and lays it out for us.

  “Smile!” I say, pointing my phone at him.

  He does, and he looks great. “Let me get one of you,” he tells me after I click the photo.

  “No. I hate pictures of me.”

  Jay purses his lips, confused. “Huh. You didn’t seem to mind the video camera in my room this morning.”

  My eyes bulge out. “What?!”

  “I’m kidding.” He pulls out his cell phone, puts his arm around me, aims the phone at us, and commands, “Say fromage.”

  Just as I start to say Fromage! he leans over and kisses my open mouth.

  He snaps the pick, then turns the phone around to show me. “A French kiss in Paris.”

  I take his phone and grimace. “Ew. I look awful.”

  “You do not. You never look awful.” He says this as though it’s a fact, not an opinion.

  A girl could get used to that.

  I have a seat as Jay pulls out the bottle of wine and the corkscrew. “This is a Chablis I like, and by that I mean it is a chardonnay from Chablis, France, not that hideous white wine I used to buy by the jug and serve you back in college.”

  “You mean, back when I thought anyone who gave me anything other than Jell-O shots was a class act?” I ask him jokingly.

  “Indeed.” He pulls out the cork and pours me a glass. “Ma lady.” He hands me the glass, sneaking in a quick kiss along the way.

  I take a sip as he pours a glass for himself. “Wow, this is good. Kind of minerally—not sweet in that cloying way.”

  “You have a good palette. I visited the village of Chablis last year. The town looks like a postcard, all green, with old-fashioned churches and stone buildings. Amazing people, and dying to get rid of the bastardized version of their name.” He takes a sip, swishes it around in his mouth, then swallows. “This bottle is supposed to have an aftertaste of ‘wet rock.’”

  “You seem to say that with your tongue firmly planted in your cheek,” I say, sticking my nose into the glass and taking a whiff.

  “Well, I just remember at the tim
e thinking, ‘Wet rock?’ What’s that a euphemism for? Used Kitty Litter?”

  I laugh. “So why did you buy it then?”

  Jay laughs. “Truthfully, the woman pouring the tasters was cute, and I was tipsy, so I bought a case.” He takes another sip. “It is good though. Even if my palette can’t detect notes of meow.”

  As Jay pulls our sandwiches and some apples from his bag, I people-watch. Because we got here around the tail end of lunchtime, hundreds of office workers are still sitting around, eating their lunch outside. Well-dressed men and women, chatting, laughing, some reading a book quietly, others checking their phone or working on their notebook computer.

  I shake my head slowly at the scene. “Man, people are just … sitting here … like it’s a normal day.”

  Jay turns to see what I’m looking at. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, like, that guy over there in the suit could be an architect, checking his phone to find out what his wife wants him to bring home for dinner. But he gets to do it in this exquisitely perfect place. Maybe to him the Eiffel Tower is what the Hollywood sign is to me—something you see around, but never think about.” I point to a twentysomething woman in dark blue, skinny jeans. “And that girl over there with the computer could be a writer, not even noticing how spectacular these flowers are because she’s too busy worrying about her deadline.”

  I take the first bite of my ham-and-cheese sandwich. “Wow,” I say with a full mouth. “This is insane.”

  Jay smiles, pleased with my reaction. “The trick is to get the Brie so warm, it’s almost runny. That and, my little secret, get your ham flown in from Spain. You might want to think about going there. It’s only a little over an hour’s flight.”

  “Mmm … being able to fly to Barcelona at the drop of a hat. Another way Parisians are lucky and don’t even know it.”

  A sad smile seems to creep over Jay’s face.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just … I’m probably leaving Paris soon. I put in for a transfer to New York. That’s why I went to San Francisco last week. I needed to have the finishing touches put in my new contract over at my company’s headquarters.”