I stared at the empty bracelet for a moment, trying to imagine the charms I might add to it and the experiences I would have over the next five weeks. Part of me wanted it all laid out before me like a road map, but of course, no matter how I tried to imagine my stay in Paris, there was no way I could know what was ahead of me. I would just have to find out.
I leaned across my seat and kissed Mom’s cheek. “Thanks, Mom! I love it!”
She helped me fasten the bracelet to my wrist, and it fit perfectly.
Then I settled back to watch the movie that was playing on the screen overhead. Thanks to the vibrating lull of the plane, the warmth of the red blanket the steward gave me, and my full stomach, I fell into a deep sleep long before the movie ended.
“Grace, time to wake up.” Mom gently nudged me.
I opened my eyes to sunshine as the plane dropped over countryside. But instead of the harbor and skyscrapers I’d seen when we took off from Boston, the plots of land below spiraled out from small towns like the spokes on a wheel.
Soon farmland gave way to greater numbers of buildings, and our plane cruised lower and lower. With a thunk of the landing wheels and the roar of the engine, we touched down on the runway of the Charles de Gaulle Airport.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the steward said. “Welcome to Paris, France. The local time is eight-thirty a.m.” Then he repeated the announcement in French.
“Eight-thirty?” I felt half asleep. Was I dreaming?
“We’re six hours ahead here,” Mom explained. “It’s two-thirty in the morning at home.”
“Weird.” No wonder I felt tired!
We followed the other passengers off the plane and down a long tunnel, and then took our place in a winding line inside the terminal. I reached into my backpack for my cell phone. Mom had already turned off the phone’s calling ability, since it would be way too expensive to make phone calls home from France. But I could still use my phone for taking photos. We were in Paris. Better start getting photos for my travel blog!
“Arrêtez-vous! No cameras! No phones!” A uniformed woman with a French accent and a pinched forehead swept down on me.
My heart dropped to my shoes.
She wagged her finger at the nearby sign. “We do not allow in this area.”
I lowered my gaze. “I’m sorry.”
A passenger behind us whispered, “It’s okay. You’re not the first.” He was dressed in a dark suit and tie, someone who probably traveled often for business.
“Thanks,” I whispered back.
Then Mom put her arm around my shoulder and said, “It’s all good, Grace. We’re in a new country now, and everything’s going to be a little different. We just have to stay loose.”
“Stay loose?” I repeated, glancing up at her.
“Sure,” said Mom, demonstrating. Her arms became limp noodles and she gave them a shake. “Like when I’m running. If I’m too tense before the start of a race, I’ll knot up and actually perform worse. Traveling in a new country is sort of the same thing.” Then she shook out her legs, too, one at a time.
Mom looked so funny that I nearly laughed. But when I saw another passenger chuckling, I felt heat rise to my cheeks.
“Mom, stop,” I pleaded. “We’re in line.”
She yawned. “Yes, I know that, Grace—a very long line. And I need to find creative ways to stay awake.” She grinned at me.
I shook my head but couldn’t help smiling—and yawning—back at her.
When we finally reached the front of the line, we made our way to the Plexiglas window where another officer sat waiting. “Bonjour!” he said. “Passports, please.”
Mom pulled out our passports and answered a few questions about the purpose of our visit and how long we intended to stay. The officer studied her face for a long moment, as if making sure she was who she said she was. Then with an official stamp on the pages of each of our passports, he motioned us on.
“Here we go!” Mom said.
“Stay loose!” I said under my breath.
At baggage claim, we waited for our luggage to drop down the conveyor belt to the revolving metal track.
“That’s mine!” I said.
Seconds later, Mom’s luggage appeared, too.
From there, we wheeled our bags outside and hailed a taxi. Mom explained that Uncle Bernard and Aunt Sophie were very apologetic about not meeting us at the airport, but like many Parisians, they didn’t own a car. Plus, with Aunt Sophie on bed rest and the bakery to run, it was difficult for either of them to get away.
The taxi driver, a gray-haired man with deep crinkles around his eyes, exclaimed, “Bonjour, Madame! Bonjour, Mademoiselle!”
“Bonjour!” we replied. It felt weird to be saying hello to a real Parisian this time, rather than just practicing with Josh.
The taxi driver placed our luggage in the trunk and opened up the back door for us. As he sat back down behind the wheel, Mom leaned forward and showed him my aunt and uncle’s address on a slip of paper. “Parlez-vous anglais?” she asked.
“Un peu,” he said. “Very little.”
“Can you take us to this address?”
“Oui, Madame!”
I watched out my window like a hawk. We merged into traffic onto the freeway, and at first things around us didn’t seem so different. Industrial buildings. Billboards—in French. And a big blue IKEA store. But gradually, we traveled into the heart of Paris on ever-narrowing, tree-lined roads that wound past fountains, parks, and old buildings.
“L’Arc de Triomphe,” the driver said, pointing in the distance to a massive stone arch at the center of a fan of roads. What followed was some sort of long explanation in French, but I only understood one word: Napoléon, who I’d learned from Mom had ruled France after the French Revolution.
At every turn in the road, we saw people. They were strolling, bicycling, walking dogs of all sizes, painting at easels, resting on benches, boarding buses, and disappearing down stairs to subways. They wore dresses and suits, blazers and berets, scarves and skirts. They sat at outside café tables, drinking coffee and reading newspapers. They carried what Mom called baguettes, or long loaves of bread from bakeries, and drove the smallest cars I’d ever seen.
We crossed a wide and winding river. “The Seine,” Mom said.
“Left Bank,” the driver added. He pointed down the river to the symbol of Paris. I recognized it instantly, rising up toward thin white clouds.
“Mom! It’s the Eiffel Tower!” I squeezed her hand. “We’re really here!”
She smiled back. “We certainly are!”
At every corner, I spotted blue signs on the sides of buildings that started with Rue de this and Rue de that. Rue in English? Easy. It must mean street.
At a corner, the driver pulled over. We were here!
Mom paid in euros, European money that she’d gotten in exchange for U.S. dollars at the airport, and—voilà!—there we were, with our driver setting our luggage on the sidewalk.
“Au revoir, Madame. Au revoir, Mademoiselle.”
I mustered up my courage. “Au revoir, Monsieur.” My words came out garbled, but the driver waved anyway and smiled as he climbed back into his taxi.
A flutter of wings went through me. We stood just yards away from a shop sign that read La Pâtisserie. The shop’s front window case boasted a colorful assortment of bakery delights. Outside, customers lingered at a few small round tables and chairs.
“This is it, Grace!” Mom said happily. “We’re finally here.”
I wasn’t sure I was ready. My shoulders and neck started to tense up. Stay loose, I told myself. Ready or not! Then I took a deep breath, pushed back my shoulders, and followed Mom toward the door of the shop.
he moment I stepped into the pâtisserie, I caught my breath. Colorful pastries, as beautiful as flowers, filled the glass cases. They were every size and shape—some garnished with chocolate and fresh fruit, others cut into wedges, circles, or triangles. Every item on every rack and
shelf seemed perfectly made, as if to say “Look at me!”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” Mom said to the pretty dark-haired teenager behind the pâtisserie counter.
“Bonjour, Madame!” She studied us and then broke into a big smile. “Sister? Madame Sophie?”
“Oui,” Mom said.
“And Grace?” she asked, with a nod to me.
“Yes! Oui,” I said, trying out a little French.
“Welcome! I am Colette.” She grabbed a cell phone and stepped out from behind the counter, wearing a floral dress beneath a white apron. She tapped something on her phone, held it to her ear, and spoke rapidly in French.
“They are happy you come to Paris!” she said, covering her phone for a moment. Then she pointed out a door to the left, saying something more in French into the phone.
As Mom and I stepped through the side door leading to a narrow staircase, a chorus of voices greeted us from above. From the second floor, Sylvie smiled down at me, sandy curls framing her big eyes. She’d grown and changed some since the wedding, but I recognized her immediately.
From the entry behind us, Uncle Bernard—whose dark hair contrasted with his white baker’s uniform—dashed up and insisted on carrying our luggage the rest of the way. “Please,” he said. “S’il vous plaît. I insist!”
On the landing, he kissed me on the left cheek and then the right, and then did the same with Mom. Sylvie held back at first, but then she and Mom exchanged kisses on each cheek, too.
Then it was my turn.
“Bonjour, Sylvie!” I said.
“Bonjour, Grace,” she replied shyly.
I didn’t know quite which way to turn my head to kiss Sylvie’s cheek and ended up bonking her nose, which she pressed her hand over. After that, she looked at me a little sideways.
Aunt Sophie met us at the door, her hand supporting her swollen belly.
“I thought you had to stay in bed!” I said, as Aunt Sophie bent toward me for an awkward hug.
“Most of the time, I do, Grace. But not every moment.” She kissed the top of my head and looked me in the eyes. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you and your mom here with us! Come in. I’ll show you around.”
“But first,” Uncle Bernard said, with a nod to Sylvie, “we want to welcome you!”
Sylvie disappeared for just a moment and returned with her arms full of gifts. She handed Mom a bouquet of small red flowers and me a light blue bag labeled La Pâtisserie.
Inside, I saw a box of macarons and a tarte with a red heart at its center, packaged in a little red box. The treats were so beautiful that I almost couldn’t imagine eating them.
“From your bakery—your pâtisserie?” I asked, amazed.
Uncle Bernard nodded and smiled.
Then I remembered my manners. “Merci!” I said, with a nod to my aunt, uncle, and Sylvie.
Uncle Bernard said something in French to Sylvie.
She glanced downward and replied, “Oui, Papa.”
“Sylvie can practice English with you,” he said to me. “And you will learn more French here, yes?”
“Oui, Uncle Bernard,” I said, pretty pleased with myself for already knowing at least a few French words.
Then Aunt Sophie showed us around the apartment, which looked as if it would take all of a half-minute. To the right, a kitchen and dining table. To the left, two upholstered chairs and a couch. A golden tabby cat lay resting on the back of the couch, but on seeing us, he arched his back, stretched out his front paws, and then sat tall as a statue, studying us.
“That’s Napoléon,” Aunt Sophie said.
“We heard about Napoléon on our ride here!” I said.
Aunt Sophie nodded. “I’m not surprised. Around Paris, there are lots of reminders of the French emperor, Napoléon Bonaparte. But our Napoléon rules around here.”
The cat blinked slowly at Aunt Sophie, as if in wholehearted agreement.
Then we continued our tour. Off the hallway of the living room, the bathroom held a tub and shower, a sink, and a washer and dryer, but no toilet. The next door over, I saw just a toilet. At the end of the hall on the right was Aunt Sophie and Uncle Bernard’s room, an empty bassinet waiting in the corner for the baby to come. And directly across the hall was Sylvie’s room, with yellow curtains and images of flowers taped to every wall. But the room held just one twin bed. Yikes. Where was I going to sleep?
Aunt Sophie seemed to read my mind. She said to Mom, “You take that room so that you can have some privacy. The girls can stay in the living area.”
Mom shook her head. “How will we send the girls to bed early so that we can stay up and visit? I’ll take the couch. I insist.”
“But I feel terrible—” Aunt Sophie protested.
“Sophie, listen to your big sis,” Mom said, putting her arm around Aunt Sophie’s shoulder.
Aunt Sophie sighed. “Do I have a choice? Once you’ve made up your mind…” She grinned and rested her head playfully on Mom’s shoulder.
As I followed Sylvie into her room to unpack my things, I saw that she had emptied out a bottom drawer of her dresser for me, which was nice. She pulled a mattress out from beneath her bed for me to sleep on. And then she showed me my half of the closet, empty hangers waiting.
“Thank you!” I said, imagining the work it had taken to make space for another person in her small bedroom. And then I remembered my French. “Merci!”
Sylvie smiled, but she didn’t say a word in return.
“I am happy to be here,” I tried again, and then couldn’t help gushing. “Thanks for letting me share your room, Sylvie. We barely had any time together when you came for the wedding. But now, we have weeks! We’re going to have so much fun together!”
Sylvie nodded, smiling more faintly this time. And then, almost as if I weren’t there, she sat down on her bed and opened a magazine. She reached for her scissors and began carefully cutting out a photo of yellow tulips. I swallowed my disappointment. I honestly didn’t know how she felt about me showing up and sharing her room for five weeks.
Aunt Sophie peeked in on us. “Everything okay?” she asked me.
I smiled. “Yes.”
She nodded at Sylvie and at the wall of artwork. “Sylvie’s been busy making flower art ever since she lost her grandma. She says it cheers her up.”
Sylvie looked up briefly and then went back to her work. I doubted she understood a word her American-born stepmother had said.
As I hung my clothes in the closet, Sylvie glanced at me now and then, but mostly she kept her eyes on what she was doing. When I was finished, she seemed to have finished her project, too—she had glued the tulip photos to a sheet of red construction paper and taped it on the wall above her bed.
“My friends and I like to make things like that sometimes, too,” I said, trying again.
Sylvie glanced over her shoulder at me just as Napoléon sauntered into our room. He hopped up on the bed and eyed me as Sylvie cleaned up after her project. I reached up to pet him, but he promptly darted back out toward the hallway. Huh.
He wasn’t going overboard trying to make me feel welcome either.
I was happy when Aunt Sophie called us into the kitchen for lunch. As we sat down, Uncle Bernard served up a plate of cold asparagus spears wrapped in strips of carrots. I glanced at Mom, wondering if this was it—our whole lunch.
Mom gave me a look that said I’d better grin and bear it.
As it turned out, lunch came in courses. Aunt Sophie explained that the first course is always vegetables or soup. Second course: roast chicken with French fries—yum! Last course: stewed apple with an assortment of cheeses. I wasn’t sure about the apple at first, but when I tasted a bite, it melted in my mouth.
I finished each course quickly—I was hungry! But I noticed that Sylvie, Uncle Bernard, and Aunt Sophie took their time eating and visiting. I nibbled a bit more slowly on my cheese.
“The best thing for jet lag,” Aunt Sophie advised, “is to get outsid
e under natural light. Fortunately, we live so close to the Luxembourg Gardens that we walk there every day. I thought Sylvie might show Grace the park this afternoon, and they can get to know each other better that way.”
“Good thinking!” Mom said. “I’ll stay here and clean up the dishes. And Sophie, you climb back into bed, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” said Aunt Sophie. “But I never took orders from you very well, did I?”
They laughed and started talking about how when they were little, Mom always wanted to play school. She was the teacher, and Sophie got to play the student. “I never could live up to your expectations, though,” Sophie said, grinning at Mom.
It was fun to see Mom and her sister joking around together. “Is that why you moved to Paris?” I asked Aunt Sophie, joining in. “To get away from your bossy big sister?”
Aunt Sophie laughed, but then she tucked her hair behind her ear and said more seriously, “I moved here because I love baking and all things French. I stayed because of Bernard.” She squeezed her husband’s hand and then looked at my cousin. “And now with Sylvie, and another baby on the way, my heart is forever here.”
Sylvie glanced up, hearing her name. She sure hadn’t shown much interest in the conversation. I suddenly wondered just how much English she understood. Was she as in the dark about English as I was with French?
Sylvie and I approached the Luxembourg Gardens, or what Uncle Bernard called Les jardins du Luxembourg. We stepped through the steel gates, leaving behind the narrow winding streets and close-knit buildings near the pâtisserie. Inside the park, wide gravel pathways, plots of grass, and trees stretched out ahead. “This is beautiful,” I said. “And it’s in your own backyard!”
Sylvie looked at me and smiled, but I don’t think she understood a word I said.
When we approached a cluster of pigeons in the path, Sylvie removed a chunk of bread from the pocket of her skirt. She broke off a piece, crumbled it between her hands, and tossed the crumbs to the birds. They flapped to the ground, cooing and pecking.
Sylvie smiled, watching them.
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