Frankie in Paris

by Shauna McGuiness

  I filled pages with faces: girls with large doe eyes, young and old. Just to kill time.

  Lulu claimed my mix tape early on. It had a bunch of punk classics from the ‘70s and some music from Rich’s local bands. The headphones were over her ears, and every once in a while she would burst out with random offensive lyrics and not realize it.

  You haven’t truly lived until you’ve heard a senior citizen yell/sing, “We’ll burn down the town and take the women with us!” in a silent airplane full of sleeping people. I think she learned every word to most of the songs by the end of the flight.

  Throughout the next couple of weeks, I would know which hard-core punk song was in my grandmother’s head by the little snippets that she would be humming out of tune.

  ***

  The flight didn’t seem as long as I imagined it would be, but I was ready to hop in a taxi and head for the Hôtel de Lutèce. Landing and debarking the plane, Lulu held on to the railing for dear life, carefully stepping down the stairs.

  We were told to prepare our passports for inspection, so I took mine out of my purse. Lulu fumbled with her bag, pulling out wadded tissues and tourist pamphlets, ultimately finding her passport somewhere at the bottom.

  After staggering our way through customs and being allowed into the country, we went to find our luggage.

  Lulu had insisted that we tie ridiculous gold ribbon to our suitcase handles so we could find them easily. I was pretty sure that no one else would be traveling with the teal monstrosity that held my clothes, but it turned out that approximately two-thirds of all passengers carried the same black bag that she had packed. The fat, shiny ribbon was a lifesaver. When I saw it dump onto the carousel, I sighed with relief.

  The airport looked like… well, like an airport. I was surprised to note that it didn’t look like we had gone anywhere. I guess it was because no matter which airport you are in, the people there are from all over the place.

  What had I expected? Maybe a scene out of Moulin Rouge? Red velvet everywhere and topless waitresses handing out Merlot? I was too exhausted to be disappointed.

  We grabbed our luggage, and Lulu pulled the handle out of the top of her suitcase and began to wheel it toward the glass exit doors.

  “How do we get a taxi here? I guess it’s the same as home. We should find where they are—” I began.

  “We’re not taking a taxi.”

  “How will we get to the hotel?” It wasn’t within walking distance. I knew because I had already looked on a map. Even if it was, Lulu was not someone who usually exercised more than strolling the length of the mall—and we were in a place with which neither of us were familiar.

  “We’ll take the bus.” I did not in a million years expect that answer. I don’t think Lulu had ever been on a bus in her life.

  By some miracle, we followed the flow of people and ended up at an Air Bus stop. Lulu rolled her ankles around, and I looked at her impossible high, shiny black heels. They had red and gold buttons sewn all over them, like raised polka-dots. Not walking shoes by any stretch of the imagination, but she was used to wearing them.

  Paris was supposed to have mild summers, but it was unbelievably hot outside. What is going on here? My jeans suddenly seemed like the wrong choice of clothing. Soft cotton stuck to my legs with perspiration, and I noticed that most of the women around us were wearing sundresses, shorts, or skirts. That memo had obviously never reached me.

  Lulu paid for our ride with money that she had exchanged when we were in the US. We squeezed into the aisle and saw that there weren’t any seats. It didn’t seem to bother my grandmother at all. Our belongings were squished into our bodies, and we were jammed against each other, like sticks of bubblegum in a brand new package.

  I was sweaty and tired, but it wasn’t a terribly long ride, and Lulu knew where we needed to get off. Pushing through the crowd and popping out the door, we lugged our bags behind us.

  ***

  We were standing in front of what looked like a grocery store. Wooden crates filled with produce were out on the sidewalk. Lulu flipped her sunglasses up and looked around. I was afraid that someone was going to try to steal our luggage, so I put each piece on either side of me and let them rest against my legs. If someone really wanted to snag our bags, I would be able to feel the attack. I wasn’t sure how effective I would be at fending off our attacker, but at least I was making an effort—and I knew that my own special kind of force could keep our belongings where they were long enough to freak someone out and send them scurrying.

  Lulu pulled out her map of Paris and figured out where we needed to go. It felt vaguely like being on a trip to an amusement park, as though we were looking for that killer roller coaster that everyone had told us about and we wanted to ride.

  Following her, dehydrated and shell-shocked, I suddenly noticed that we were in... France!

  It smelled different. Looking down, I actually saw the cobblestones. I heard laughter and voices, and they were all speaking… French! Switching my bag to the arm that was less sore, I determinedly followed my grandmother. She seemed to know where she was going.

  Wandering up and down a few streets, we finally ended up on Rue Berthollet, at the front door of the Hôtel de Lutèce. Burgundy curtains framed the windows and deep red mahogany chairs surrounded the lobby. This is more like what I was expecting!

  Striped gold wallpaper stretched from floor to ceiling, and little elegant end tables perched near some of the chairs. A man stood behind the front desk. He had dark hair and heavy, untamed eyebrows, and he was wearing a uniform: burgundy suit jacket, burgundy slacks, goldenrod bowtie. My relief was instant when I realized that he didn’t sport a twirly mime mustache.

  “Bonjour,” Lulu said.

  “Bonjour, Madame. Comment allez-vous?” His nametag said Henri.

  “No”, said Lulu, not understanding that he had just asked her how she was doing, “We need to check in to our room. I am Betty Day.”

  Betty was her real name. I have only heard two people use that name, my great-grandmother and my great-aunt. It sounded strange to hear her say it.

  “Oui, Madame Day,” Henri said “Ere eet eez. I have you on zee sird floor. Let me get zee keys for you.”

  “Okay, uh, merci,” she responded. She pronounced it mercy.

  Handing her the keys, he offered for someone to take our luggage. She refused, and walked to the elevator.

  “We can carry them ourselves.”

  "We can carry them ourselves???" What ever happened to “delusions of grandeur?” First the bus, now we have to drag our own luggage to our rooms? Things were looking grim.

  ***

  On the third floor we found our number and opened the door. It was a small, quaint room. The walls were covered in blue flowered paper and the twin beds had flowery bedspreads as well. All of the furniture was a cherry-colored wood. Our shower in the tiny bathroom resembled the one in my parents’ RV. It was muggy inside. No air conditioner!

  Looking into a mirror hanging over the small desk, I saw that my bangs were greasy and stuck to my forehead. Sweat created a sheen on my upper lip, and my lipstick had almost worn off. The ring of bright red around my lips looked gross.

  I needed water. Right now. If the water gives me diarrhea (or is that only in Mexico?), I can figure out how to ask for Pepto in French. I turned on the tap and cupped my hands. The water felt wonderful, but tasted odd, sort of metallic, maybe. I just drank enough to clear the dust out of my throat.

  An annoyed voice called from the bedroom, “We need to change rooms.”

  “What do you mean? I like this room.”

  “Look out the window.”

  Looking down, I saw the top of a business building. It was a one-story building—so you could see the white, industrial looking roof, with dirty, murky puddles covering most of it.

  I guess this wasn’t the view of Paris she was expecting.

  Picking up our bags, we headed back down the elevator.

  “
Excuse me, Henri,” Lulu announced. Instead of calling him Onree, the way the natives would have, she just called him Henry. “We need another room.”

  “What eez wrong weez your room?” Henri questioned, alarmed.

  “I don’t like it, that’s what is wrong.” She puffed up her small body in defense.

  “Oui, oui. Alright, let me see what eez available.” He disappeared for a moment.

  It was suffocatingly hot in the lobby. I looked outside the large glass doors, and sure enough, there was Paris.

  Henri brought out a different set of keys and made a trade. We would still be on the third floor, across the hall from our first room.

  Trudging back over to the elevator with our luggage (Henri didn’t even ask if we needed help this time), we found our new accommodation. It was basically the same setup with a different view.

  This time the view was of the side of a brick building. A brick wall. Apparently, this would work for us.

  ***

  Exhaustion sat on my chest like one of those weird aprons that they make you wear when you get your teeth x-rayed. I plunked down on the edge of my bed and ended up lying spread eagle on top of the flowery comforter.

  “You can’t just lie there! We’re on vacation!” Lulu yanked her suitcase up on her bed and began pulling out all of her clothes.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “These!” She beamed and held up a pair of white shoes. I had a pair of shoes like these when I was in seventh grade. They were flats, with no heel, whatsoever. Made of some kind of synthetic material, with tops that looked woven, they were as un-Lulu as un-Lulu could be. Like white, wicker ballet slippers.

  “And what are those?” I asked, tentatively.

  “They’re flats.”

  “How did those flats get in your suitcase?”

  “I packed them, of course.”

  “What are you going to do with them?”

  “I thought I would wear these while we are here, so that I can do some walking.”

  “Wow, okay.” I sat up and looked at her.

  “So let’s go and do some walking!”

  I really, really didn’t want to leave my soft seat on the unfamiliar bed. From across the room, I called my brush and lipstick out of my purse. Once they reached my hands, I brushed my hair and reapplied my lipstick. Paris’s first impression of moi had to be perfect!

  “Okay, let’s go!”

  “Let’s go!”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know,” she smiled, with an impish look on her face, looking much, much younger.

  Staring at her for a moment, I used all my mental strength to open up the door, and then waited for her to exit.

  Turning to look up at me over her shoulder, she said, “You shouldn’t do that,” frowning, “There might be cameras hidden somewhere around the hotel.” Why wasn’t she so concerned about witnesses when she was jonesing for pretzels on the airplane earlier?

  I rolled my eyes at her and used the same method to gently close the door. It automatically locked behind us.

  The elevator brought us back down to the empty lobby. I peeked around the corner and found a little restaurant with ten or twelve small tables covered with white tablecloths. Très charmant. When I turned around, Henri was there.

  “We serve only le petit déjeuner,” he said.

  “Merci,” I responded, translating that they only served breakfast.

  “Ah! Parlez-vous français?” he asked.

  “Un petit peu. I, uh, took French in school. I’m sure my accent is terrible.”

  “Non! Ce n’est pas terrible!” He smiled. He was probably around forty years old. “Eet eez unfortunate zat you did not arrive a few days sooner. You and your grand-mère missed all zee Bastille Day activities.”

  “Il fait très chaud. Is it always this hot here?”

  “Non. Eet eez hotter than eet has been in many years.”

  “Lucky us.” I sounded forlorn, and he laughed.

  Lulu was already outside of the glass doors.

  “Enjoy your walk,” Henri winked, and opened the door for me.

  “Merci beaucoup!” I thanked him, and stepped out into France.

  ***

  Suddenly I was standing on the set of an artsy movie—the kind with subtitles that only play at the pretentious downtown theaters.

  A girl was riding a bicycle with a basket attached to the front. It was filled with books. The women that I saw walking down the cobblestone street looked terribly stylish and European. They had short haircuts or elegant up-dos, and there is just something about a French girl’s lips. They always seem to be pouting. Both the upper and lower lips are pushed out, just a little bit. I thought they were beautiful and wondered if I could achieve the same effect.

  Nah, I'd probably look like I had a problem with my teeth.

  There was an actual French florist selling actual French flowers on the corner of the street. It was extremely warm outside, but it no longer bothered me because I was so overwhelmed at the sights before me.

  The buildings all along the street were tall and had little wrought iron window boxes. Everything looked so old, but elegant and detailed. So different from downtown San Jose! A chanteuse sang in my head. It was Edith Piaf, French cultural icon. Her voice was trilling “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien”, almost as though she stood next to me belting out the song. She had died a long time ago, but whenever you think about France, I’ll bet it’s Madame Piaf that you hear, somewhere in the background of your brain.

  I love this place.

  Lulu motioned me towards a pay phone outside of the Hotel de Lutèce. I dug the phone card, which my mother had loaned me for our trip, out of my purse. After a few moments, my grandmother was connected to Grampy. She explained that we had arrived safely and she would call again, sometime that week, ending the conversation with a request that he call my mom to let her know that we had made it.

  Two little old men sat at a round table at a café across the street. They were having some sort of argument. I wasn’t able to catch any of the words, but the tone of their conversation drifted up into the sweet music of the neighborhood, along with whistling and footsteps and ... too many sounds to process.

  A few doors down from the hotel stood a beauty salon—and I imagined that all sorts of glamorous foreign things happened inside.

  “Well, where to?” Asked Lulu.

  “Let’s just walk for a while. The hotel only serves breakfast. Maybe we can find something to eat for dinner.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Oh, and Lulu?”

  She looked up at me and flipped her sunglasses down over her eyes.

  “I love it. I really love it. Thank you so much!”

  “You’re welcome, dear.”

  Lulu seemed so much shorter without her heels. I could look right down into her nest of poufy white-blonde hair.

  From where we were standing, the pointy top of Notre Dame was in view. We were so close! I knew we were somewhere near the Latin Quarter, too, but I was too tired to look for it. I think Lulu was getting tired, also. She stopped in front of a bakery.

  “Why don’t we get a baguette for dinner?”

  My stomach growled. I had hoped for a baguette with my dinner. With my chateaubriand, for instance.

  “Can’t we go to one of those cafés and get a sandwich or some soup, or something?” The scents that blended in with the rest of the activity around us practically made me drool.

  “No.”

  “Why not? I am starving and—"

  “I don’t want to spend any money on dinner tonight. We should save our money so we can eat somewhere really nice tomorrow. Bread will be fine.”

  Should I have pulled out the money that Rich gave to me? Starving to death in a foreign country constituted an emergency, right? I decided that spending my stash within my first two hours of our arrival would not be such a great idea. I would eat like a prisoner tonight so that we could eat something wonder
ful in the near future.

  Paying for our long baguette with francs, I was insanely excited to be using foreign money.

  The whole place smelled delicious. Fat, rolled, fresh croissants behind a glass counter and little decadent desserts lined the white papered shelf. I reached into the glass-fronted refrigerator near the cash register to see if they had any diet soda.

  “We’re not buying any drinks here,” a voice piped behind me.

  “We’re not?”

  “No, we can have water at the hotel.”

  My first night in Paris, France, and I was having bread and water for dinner. Bon appétit.

  Carrying our meal under my arm as we walked, I noted that it was half as tall as Lulu. Maybe she didn’t require much food because she was so tiny. I was considerably taller at 5’7’’ and seemed to need to eat more often than she.

  I took a jagged deep breath, and we walked back to the hotel.

  The Land of Wine and Romance—and I am stuck with my grandmother.

  I was ready for bed.

  ***

  An overdubbed episode of Baywatch was on the TV. The male voice they were using in place of David Hasselhoff’s just didn’t sound right, making my skin crawl.

  Lulu ripped off a hunk of bread and handed the paper wrapped loaf across the gap between our beds. I tore off a piece and took a bite. Crumbs fell on my chest, like massive dandruff, so I took larger bites, trying not to make a mess where I would be sleeping.

  Reaching into her purse, she produced a plastic bottle of water. After taking a sip, she handed it to me. It had pink lipstick around the mouth of it. I wiped it off with my fingers and drank my half, still able to taste the lipstickiness.

  When I finished eating, I got out my toiletries bag and my pajamas and headed to the bathroom.

  “You’re not getting ready for bed, are you?”

  “I’m tired, Lulu.” My inner French girl said, “Je suis fatiguée.” I sounded beat, even to myself.

  “It’s still light outside.” Indeed it was. An orange feather of light reached down between the two buildings into our room. I didn’t care.