Daring Chloe

by Walker, Laura Jensen

“Oh, pardonnez-moi.” Kailyn’s face flushed crimson. “I’m so sorry.”

  The woman fixed her with an icy stare before click-clacking away in her black high-heeled boots onto the Metro.

  “Way to get off on the wrong stiletto,” Becca said.

  Tess led the way into the Metro car, the rest of us piling in behind her, tossing out pardons left and right as we lugged our mountain of baggage through the packed car. Annette managed to snag the last remaining empty seat — but the rest of us had to stand in the crowded car, holding on to metal poles for balance.

  From my standing vantage point I noticed that the annoyed madame whom Kailyn clipped with her suitcase wasn’t the only well-dressed French woman on the Metro. Everywhere I looked, the women were well put together. Not one sweatsuit or California casual in the bunch. And since French women are known for being fashion icons, I studied them discreetly to see what it was they had that we didn’t.

  The answer was scarves.

  Nearly every woman, from the black-blazered, twenty-something professionals to the elegant grandmamas with their translucent crepe-paper skin, seemed to be wearing a scarf knotted casually at the throat. I determined then and there to go home with at least three.

  Shoes were the other thing that set the Parisian women apart.

  As I stole a covert glance at their French feet, a sea of black and brown footwear in every height — from narrow, flat-soled walking shoes to spiky stilettos — filled my vision. And not one French woman was wearing the wide, comfortable white tennis shoes that are de rigueur for every soccer mom, jogger, and middle-aged woman in the U.S. The few glimpses I caught of white tennis shoes clearly belonged to American tourists.

  Annette noticed too. She tucked her glaring white Pumas that seemed to be emitting an otherworldly glow discreetly behind her big rolling suitcase. Then she leaned over and whispered to Kailyn. “Tomorrow, we’re going shoe shopping.”

  Grateful that I’d worn my favorite low-heeled black leather boots, I uttered a prayer of thanks that I’d been able to talk Becca into wearing her black clogs rather than her bright red Birks on the plane.

  When we disembarked and struggled to street level again, Annette wheeled her largest suitcase off to the side, away from the roiling crowds spilling out from the Trocadéro stop, and sat down on it. “Can y’all give me a minute to catch my breath?”

  The rest of us set our luggage down, and I massaged the palms of my hands to relieve the suitcase handle burn.

  “Are we almost there?”

  “Pretty close,” Tess said. “Just a few blocks and we’ll be at the hotel.”

  “A few blocks?”

  A gust of wind sliced through us.

  “I’m cold,” Kailyn whined. “And thirsty. And it looks like it’s going to rain any minute, and I don’t know which suitcase my umbrella is in.”

  Becca leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Do you know if the French believe in capital punishment? Because I think I’m about to kill somebody.”

  “Okay, girls, chop chop.” Tess picked up her luggage. “Let’s get moving.”

  Becca and I followed close behind Tess, while Paige, Annette, and Kailyn brought up the rear. We walked past a few buildings, turned the corner, and then stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk.

  Even Kailyn became uncharacteristically silent as six American girls stood utterly still in quiet reverie at their first sight of the Eiffel Tower looming above the city, dark against the glow of a pale gray sky.

  It looked almost close enough to touch.

  “There it is!” Paige’s mouth hung open. “We’re actually here. In Paris! Can you believe it?” Becca gaped, at a loss for words. First time since I’d known her.

  I felt the same way. I’d seen the Eiffel Tower a million times in a million pictures. So why did I feel as if I was going to burst into tears any second? It’s just a building. Not even a building. A structure. Of iron, no less. I’d never seen anything like it.

  “Magical, isn’t it?” Tess said.

  “I always thought the Golden Gate Bridge was the most gorgeous man-made structure I’d ever seen,” I whispered. “Until now.”

  “This is why we didn’t take a taxi. I figured a few sore arms and backs would be worth it.”

  “Oh yes,” I breathed, unable to tear my eyes away, even as a continuous stream of people walked up and down the sidewalk around me.

  “Just wait until you see her at night all lit up like a Christmas tree.” Tess kissed her fingers.

  She was even more magnificent up close and personal.

  We trundled our bags over a stone bridge traversing the Seine as we approached the beautiful iron madame. That’s what she was to me — an elegant, ageless woman with a lacy web of crisscrossing lines on her face and a backbone of iron.

  Becca whistled. “Look how huge it is.”

  “Amazing.”

  “I didn’t know it was brown, though.” Kailyn scrunched her eyes at Paige. “Did you?”

  “Uh-uh. I always thought it was black. That’s what it looked like in every movie I’ve ever seen.”

  “Well, you do watch a lot of black-and-white movies,” Tess remarked dryly.

  “I thought it was black too.” I stared upward at the brownish-bronze tower, still entranced by the iconic sight.

  “Well, black or brown, I can see why so many couples come here for their honeymoon and why so many guys propose here too.” Kailyn sighed. “C’est très romantique! ”

  Annette’s face lit up. “I might try and get your daddy to bring me here for our thirtieth wedding anniversary.”

  “Only if I can come too.”

  “Now that would be really romantic.”

  “Romantic-shmomantic.” Becca stuck out her tongue. “This is a girls’ adventure, remember? And I vote we start our Paris adventure by going all the way up to the top of the tower.”

  “We will, but later.” Tess pushed her rumpled hair off her forehead and eyed our bedraggled appearance. “We look like a group of refugees. Let’s get to the hotel ASAP.”

  We picked up our bags again and followed Tess. A few minutes later, though, she stopped, frowned, and pulled out her pop-up Paris map.

  “Oh no,” Kailyn wailed. “Don’t. Don’t tell me we’re lost.”

  “We can’t be lost, baby girl,” Annette soothed. “The Eiffel Tower is right behind us.”

  Tess looked at her map, then back in the direction of the Tower. She turned her map a couple times. “Aha. Not lost, just taking a long cut. Sometimes you take a short cut, sometimes you take a long cut. Back at the edge of the park there were three streets that came together. We simply took the wrong spoke.”

  If looks could kill, my favorite aunt would have been dead five times over.

  “So how many more blocks to the hotel?” I shivered as another gust of wind cut through me.

  “Looks like about four.”

  “I knew we should have taken a taxi,” Kailyn said.

  “This is all part of the adventure. You’ll laugh about it when we get home.”

  “Is that before or after we starve to death?” Becca sent Tess a dark look.

  “Personally, I can think of worse things than to be lost in Paris.” I gazed at the elegant creamy buildings all around us. I’d thought watching the travelogues and all the movies set here would have prepared me for Paris. I was wrong. Nothing compares to the real thing. It was so much more than I ever imagined. “Just look at all this gorgeous architecture.”

  “You look at it,” Kailyn grumped. “I’d rather take a nap.”

  “No sleeping allowed,” Tess advised. “At least until we’ve had some lunch and done a little sightseeing. What we’re doing now — walking around outside — is the best thing for jet lag.”

  “Tell that to my bunions.” Annette rubbed her foot.

  “If Jenna were here, she’d say no pain, no gain.” Paige picked up her bags. “So in honor of our absent member, I vote we get moving.”

  After c
hecking into our small, charmant hotel with a green awning and a reserved, albeit polite concierge (who revealed his name was Arnaud after prodding from a flirtatious Kailyn), we agreed to meet back in the lobby in ten minutes to begin sightseeing. Becca and Paige disappeared through the dining room to the back of the hotel where they were sharing a room on the ground floor. And Arnaud the chivalrous helped Kailyn and Annette load their mountain of bags into the narrow elevator that would take them to their fourth floor room.

  Tess and I started to follow.

  “Alors, I am sorry,” Arnaud said, “but I am afraid the ascenseur — elevator — is petit. If you wait, I will send it back down for you.”

  “Petite is right.” I sucked in my stomach when Tess and I squeezed into the narrow, claustrophobic space a couple minutes later. Thankfully, when we exited the ascenseur, our room faced us. Tess turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

  An explosion of red toile met our eyes. Toile wallpaper, toile curtains, toile lampshades, even a toile bedspread.

  On the lone bed. A double.

  “Uh, didn’t we ask for twin beds?”

  She frowned. “Yes.” She dropped her purse on the pastoral bedspread and picked up the phone. “I wonder what happened. Let me call down to the front desk.”

  While Tess talked to the concierge in rapid-fire French, I took the opportunity to use the bathroom/water closet. This, like the elevator was also petit. But sparkling clean, I was thrilled to see, with a full bathtub and shower.

  A casement window in the shower wall opened onto the street, beckoning me. As I approached, I realized I could see into the apartment building directly opposite — where a man, whose back was to me, was getting dressed.

  I shut the window and backed away quickly, then took advantage of the facilities.

  Looking around for the handle to flush, I couldn’t find one in the usual places. I glanced at the floor to see if maybe there was a button on the ground to press with my foot. Nothing.

  I noticed a framed pen and ink sketch of a nude hanging above the toilet. Only in Paris. Beneath the tasteful sketch of the naked woman (that didn’t really show anything other than her back and some discreet curves), two white plastic spheres were affixed to the wall — one large, one small.

  Cautiously, I pressed the larger of the two spheres.

  Whoosh.

  I washed my hands and dried them on my jeans, not wanting to dirty the towel for the next guests since I knew we’d soon be vacating the room once Tess had straightened out the single-bed mix-up.

  I returned to the room of toile. A girl could get lost in all that toile. “Hey, what’s the deal with these two different circles above the toilet?”

  “One’s for large loads, the other, for small. Water conservation, you know.”

  Well all righty then.

  I picked up my purse and suitcase and opened the door. “So, what’s our new room number?”

  “603.”

  I looked from Tess to the number on the door. “But this is 603.”

  “Oui, oui.” She walked over to the window. “Although I made our reservations ages ago, a couple days before we left, it occurred to me that we might like a room with a view instead, so I emailed them with the upgrade and, voilà!” Tess pulled open the toile drapes with a flourish.

  Over the rooftops at a kitty-corner angle, I could see the entire top half of the Eiffel Tower.

  I gasped.

  “The only room with a view was a double. Not the choice I’d intended, but just look at that sight! Isn’t that worth a little coziness?”

  “Well . . .” I plopped down on the far side of the bed with its busy pastoral scenes in red and white. With my head on the toile pillow, I looked out the window again.

  The glorious Tower filled my eyes.

  “If you don’t like this, the concierge said there was one with two twins left on the second floor that looks out at the alleyway.”

  “I think I can manage if you can.”

  “Bon.” Tess released a pleased smile and pushed open the bathroom door. “And now my turn.”

  I quickly unpacked and peeled off the green turtleneck I’d been wearing since yesterday morning, exchanging it for a fresh black pullover. I brushed my hair and pulled it back into a black hair tie just as Tess opened the bathroom door.

  “Good idea.” Tess glanced at my top and exchanged her red sweater for a white button-down blouse and brick red leather blazer. “You ready to go explore the most beautiful city in the world?”

  “Duh. Or should I say ooh-la-la?”

  “Mmm. This has got to be what heaven will smell like.” Paige sniffed appreciatively as we entered the creperie.

  It had been a little tricky deciding what to do for lunch — getting six women to agree on something is like getting Dr. Laura to agree with Howard Stern. Paige, Kailyn, and Annette — now sporting brown leather loafers — wanted to dine at a sidewalk café, while Becca and I longed to just grab something from the small pâtisserie around the corner so we could begin exploring the city.

  Tess cast the deciding vote. “First rule of thumb: Never grab and eat. Although McDonald’s has made it to Paris — unfortunately — the French abhor the whole concept of fast food. When they eat, it’s usually a two- or three-hour affair.”

  “Three hours?” Becca wailed. “That’s valuable sightseeing time wasted!”

  “Good food and good conversation is never a waste. However, for our first day, I know we’re all eager to explore my favorite city in the world, so we’ll compromise.” Tess looked at her watch. “There’s a little creperie nearby that serves amazing crepes, and we can probably be in and out in under an hour.”

  Hesitant to try anything too exotic for my first meal in France — there’d be plenty of time for that later — I ordered a basic and incredibly delicious crepe with ham and gruyere cheese.

  “Mmm, that was divine,” Paige said, after swallowing the last bite of her smoked salmon with crème fraîche and lemon crepe.

  “Told you you’d like it.” Tess finished off her chicken crepe and murmured something in French to the passing waiter.

  “What’d you say?” I downed the rest of my Evian. “I couldn’t quite make it out.”

  “You’ll see. It’s a surprise.”

  Moments later, the waiter returned with three more crepes, which he set down in front of Tess. “Bon appetite, Madame.”

  Becca cut her eyes at Tess. “For a little person, you sure eat a lot.”

  “This is dessert, and it’s for all of us.” Tess cut each crepe in half and transferred the portions onto our plates. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tried Nutella.”

  “Nutella?” I eyed my half warily.

  “Chocolate hazelnut spread.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” Annette speared a piece with her fork. “I haven’t met a chocolate yet that I didn’t like.” She popped the bite into her mouth and moaned.

  Pretty soon our whole table was moaning in chocoholic rapture.

  “Keep it down,” Tess hissed. “You sound like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally.”

  I giggled. Then Kailyn and her mother. And then Paige. In seconds we had all dissolved into fits of laughter.

  Must have been the jet lag.

  “I can’t understand what they’re saying.” Becca stabbed at the buttons on her armrest that controlled her headset as the tour bus pulled away from the Eiffel Tower.

  “Me either.” Annette crossed her eyes. “It’s all Greek to me.”

  “Mine’s Japanese.” I held up my headphones, stuck out my lower lip, and adopted my best baby voice. “Waaah. Fix it, Aunt Tess. It’s broken.”

  “Whoa,” Becca said. “For a minute there, I thought maybe Kailyn had a twin.”

  I stuck my tongue out at my roommate as Tess moved from seat to seat on the upper level of the double-decker, open-air bus, setting the audio guide to English. At last we were on our way, checking out the most romantic city in the world.
r />   Well, not that romantic when you’re with a bunch of women. But who cares?

  I was in Paris!

  21

  When a man understands the art of seeing, he can trace the spirit of an age and the features of a king even in the knocker on a door.

  The Hunchback of Notre Dame

  I hunched into my black pea coat and wrapped my arms around my middle to ward off the damp January air.

  “We could sit down below if you’re too cold,” Tess suggested.

  “No way. I don’t want to miss a thing. What’s a little cold when you’re in the most beautiful city in the world?” The wind whipped my hair around my face as I gazed all around.

  The elegant architecture with all its ornate detail and carvings was a far cry from all the bland California stucco I was accustomed to. Most of the stately stone buildings we passed were white and creamy. Like vanilla ice cream. Or whipped butter.

  Annette huddled closer to Kailyn. “I read somewhere that most European cities are considered masculine, but what sets Paris apart is that she’s a woman.”

  We passed by yet another graceful and elegant whipped butter building.

  “Oh no,” I said. “Paris isn’t a woman — Paris is a lady.”

  “Couldn’t have put it better myself.” Tess inclined her head to a gold-domed building. “Would anyone care to pay their respects to someone who was the farthest thing from a lady? Want to visit Napoleon’s Tomb?”

  “Why would we want to see where some old dead guy is buried?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Annette answered. “Maybe because Napoleon was one of the greatest military leaders in history?”

  “And one of the most egotistical,” Becca said. “I’ll pass.”

  “Me too. Sorry, Tess. Not really my thing.”

  “Mine either,” Paige confessed.

  “That’s okay. We middle-aged menopausal types will come back later and check it out. Okay, Annette?”

  “You got it.”

  “Hey!” Kailyn pointed off to the right as the bus turned the corner. “That looks like The Thinker between those shrubs over there.”

  “You’re right.” Annette waggled her eyebrows, Groucho Marx – like. “I’d recognize that butt anywhere.”