“Happy Bastille Day, Grace!” she said in a singsong voice.
“Happy what?” I asked, stepping into the kitchen.
“Bastille Day,” Mom repeated. “France’s day of independence. July fourteenth here is a lot like July fourth back home. Come sit and I’ll tell you about it.”
I was torn—eager to get downstairs. But Mom had that look on her face that said breakfast was more of an order than a request. So I trooped to the table, where she had a croissant waiting for me.
“France had a revolution much like ours,” Mom explained, passing me the jam. “We threw off being governed by England, an ocean away. Here, the people were overtaxed and hungry, and they didn’t want to be governed by their kings and queens any longer. On July 14, 1789, they stormed the Bastille, a fortress and prison in Paris, which began the revolution.”
Mom was such a teacher! But I couldn’t resist asking, “And then what happened?”
“Well, King Louis the Sixteenth was taken to the guillotine and beheaded.”
I sucked in my breath. “And the queen?”
“The queen at the time was Marie Antoinette. They arrested her, too, and held her in a tower here on the Seine. Eventually, she lost her head, too.”
“Ouch,” I said, a bite of croissant sticking in my throat.
“Revolution comes from the word revolt,” Mom continued. “When people feel voiceless, they sometimes revolt and take matters into their own hands. And today the people of France are celebrating that revolution—or the new government that was formed because of it. There’ll be parades and maybe fireworks later. Sound like fun?”
I nodded. But the word fun made me think of the pâtisserie. I swallowed my last bite and chugged my juice. “Can I be done?” I asked Mom.
She grinned and nodded. “Yes, Grace,” she said. “Your history lesson is done. Get on downstairs.”
I gave Mom a quick hug and raced down the narrow stairs and into the pâtisserie kitchen, where I found Uncle Bernard, Sylvie, and Colette hard at work.
“Happy Bastille Day!” I announced.
Sylvie looked up in surprise. “Bastille Day? Ah, la prise de la Bastille! Happy Bastille Day, Grace,” she said, smiling.
Uncle Bernard nodded. “Yes, a day to celebrate. You’ve all been working very hard. This afternoon you go to Berthillon shop. Very famous!” Then he added in French, “Allez donc vous prendre une glace?”
A smile stretched across Sylvie’s face, and I waited in suspense to hear what had been said.
Colette translated for me. “De la glace, Grace. Ice cream.”
I gave a thumbs-up. Ice cream—everywhere—is a treat!
When afternoon came, I was more than ready for our bike ride to Berthillon. I was thrilled to go on an outing with Colette. Sylvie was still pretty quiet around me, but we managed to exchange a few words here and there. With Colette I felt a little freer. She could, after all, speak my language.
Colette tucked her black ruffled skirt beneath her as she jumped onto her bike. I wasn’t surprised anymore to see women in dresses and men in business suits on bikes, zipping around Paris.
I was riding Aunt Sophie’s bike today, with the seat lowered just enough to fit me. As I trailed Colette and Sylvie down the cobblestone street, I noticed that many of the shops had signs in the window that read fermé, which must mean “closed.” And some of the shops had flags and banners stretched over their awnings in honor of Bastille Day.
The French flag is blue, white, and red—the same colors as our flag! I noticed that people were wearing patriotic-colored clothing, too. As one teenage boy flew by us on his bike, I saw a bold French flag painted on his cheek. Sylvie caught it, too, and we exchanged smiles.
“Girls,” Colette called over her shoulder, “first we go to les Halles.”
We crossed the river, and Sylvie and I followed Colette like little ducklings. I wasn’t about to get lost again.
“Le Louvre,” Colette said, biking into an expansive stone square between brick buildings. At the center of the square stood a glass pyramid. It was such a modern design in the middle of this old city. Colette explained in words and gestures that it was the entrance to the vast surrounding museum, where lines of visitors seemed to extend for miles. I was glad to be biking, instead of standing in line.
Les Halles turned out to be a nearby neighborhood famous for its baking and cooking shops. I’d landed in a dreamworld!
We parked our bikes, and then Colette pulled out a piece of paper with a short list of items.
“Girls,” she said to me and Sylvie, holding up the list for us to read. “We need for La Pâtisserie.” She repeated in French for Sylvie.
The list of items was all in French. “En anglais, s’il te plaît?” I asked, pointing to the words. “In English, please?”
Colette quickly interpreted, and then we were off looking for pastry rings, pastry brushes, and more, as if on a scavenger hunt together.
My head spun as I followed Colette and Sylvie in and out of shops filled with every sort of baking pan and cookware imaginable. I saw rows of cooking utensils. Stoneware dishes of yellow, red, white, black, and eggplant purple. Special pans and dishes for making many of the French treats I’d come to love, such as madeleines, tartes, and crème brûlée—that yummy custard with a caramelized top.
At one shop, when Colette asked for baking paper, a man in a tie climbed to the top of a ladder to retrieve the paper from a tall stack of supplies.
At another shop, Sylvie paused to hold up a fake red lobster and struck a pose. It was half her size! I laughed and whipped out my phone.
Click!
It took some effort, but eventually we helped Colette find everything on her list.
“Voilà!” I said, hopping on my bike after Colette.
“Mission accomplished!” Sylvie chimed in from behind me, her English taking me by surprise.
I started to giggle. “Mission accomplished? Where did you learn that?” I called over my shoulder.
But she just laughed and then, like a parrot, repeated it again. “Mission accomplished!” Hearing such a familiar phrase spoken in Sylvie’s French accent cracked me up. Who knew running errands could be so much fun?
We biked back across another bridge onto a little island called île Saint-Louis. On the corner of an outdoor café, I spotted a sign with a long list of ice cream flavors.
“Berthillon!” Sylvie called with a big smile.
I quickly realized that the worst part about visiting Berthillon, the famous place to stop for ice cream, was making a decision. I finally settled on noisette and framboise—hazelnut and raspberry. Instead of one scoop on top of the other, the little cake cone held two scoops side by side. Cute!
We leaned over the stone wall with our cones, licking them faster than the sun could melt them away. Below, long tourist boats drifted by, with guides on board giving the history of the little island and the Notre Dame cathedral up ahead.
I waved and a few boaters waved back.
I thought back to my first few days here and my visit to the famous cathedral with Mom. I’d been pretty tense at first, trying to figure out this new world around me. Everything had felt so strange, so different then. But in only a few weeks’ time, some things were starting to seem familiar. I was feeling more at home, and I couldn’t believe that today, I was actually out exploring the heart of Paris with Colette and Sylvie. I smiled at them as they licked their cones.
Colette asked, “Aimes-tu la glace, Grace?”
Sylvie repeated the question in English. “Do you like ice cream, Grace?”
“Like it?” I took another lick, as if I wasn’t quite sure. I let my tongue savor the flavors. “No, I don’t like it.”
For a moment, they both looked disappointed, but I didn’t let them worry for long.
“I don’t like it,” I said again. “Je t’aime!”
Sylvie giggled and corrected me. “Je l’aime.”
“Oui!” I said, taking another lick.
“I love it!”
Sylvie giggled again, which made the ice cream taste that much sweeter.
As we biked back across the bridge toward the pâtisserie, we came upon two musicians—an accordion player and a violinist—with an open case at their feet filled with coins. They were playing an energetic marching song, like something you might hear at the start of a sports event, and the man playing the accordion was singing in a deep, proud voice.
Colette put up her hand, signaling to us that she wanted to stop. We joined her and pulled off to the side near the musicians, where a few other people were gathering, too, and singing along.
“La Marseillaise,” she whispered to me. “Our…how do you say…national song.”
I let the music flow through me as Colette translated the lyrics. As the accordion player sang “Marchons! Marchons!” Colette leaned toward me and whispered, “March! March!” And I wanted to! Or at least to sing along with the others, whose voices swelled together into one wonderful chorus.
As the song came to an end, we applauded and turned back toward our bikes. But then the musicians began something new: a sweet melody that caught Colette’s attention. Her eyes lit up and she swayed slightly, moving with the rhythm. And then she began to sing. Her voice fluttered up and around us, as unexpectedly beautiful as a pigeon in flight.
I turned to Sylvie, who looked equally surprised.
The accordion player smiled through his short gray beard. The violinist, a woman with volumes of red hair, nodded approvingly at Colette.
Colette sang on, seeming completely confident and at ease. I could never do that! I thought to myself, wishing I had the courage to just jump in and do something unexpected. But then I remembered that I’d already done many things in Paris that I hadn’t thought I could do. Here, everything seemed…I struggled for the right word. I don’t know. Lighter, as if the very air was filled with something magical—filled with possibility.
I wished that I had researched some French songs—practiced them—so that I would be ready for this moment. But as much as I like to plan ahead, I guess there are some moments you just can’t plan for. Stay loose, Mom had said to me at the start of our trip. Maybe it was time for me to let go a little, to loosen up and take some risks.
When the musicians started in with “Frère Jacques,” a song I knew, I felt as if they were playing it just for me. Before I could change my mind, I tossed caution to the wind, stepped into the circle, and joined in singing. Suddenly Sylvie was beside me, and together we were singing our hearts out. A small crowd gathered again, and people started tossing more coins into the open violin case.
I smiled ear to ear as I sang, sharing this moment of fame with Sylvie and Colette. When the song ended and some of the people around us clapped, Sylvie and I burst into laughter. I felt so good—so free!
When the musicians offered to share some of their tips with us, Colette shook her head and just said, “Merci.” The musicians bowed in our direction and then waved good-bye as we got back on our bikes.
“Au revoir!” we called as we began to pedal away. And long after we reached the other side of the bridge, I could still hear the beautiful sound of that violin.
We took a different route home, because several streets were closed for a parade. I could hear the marching band in the distance, and when a few military planes flew overhead, I ducked my head—which made Sylvie laugh behind me.
When we reached La Pâtisserie, the little stray dog was already hanging out by the front door, ready for an early dinner. I quickly ducked inside to get the bag of dog food and refilled her empty bowl.
Just then, we heard the explosion of fireworks from somewhere nearby. Bonbon crouched down low, ready to run. “It’s okay, puppy,” I said in a soothing voice. “It’s just fireworks. Happy Bastille Day, Bonbon.”
“Bonbon?” Sylvie asked with a tilt of her head.
“She needed a name,” I explained. I wondered if it bothered Sylvie that I’d gone ahead and named the little dog.
“Tu t’appelles Bonbon,” she said and ran her hand lightly over the dog’s upright ears. She flashed me a smile, and I smiled back.
“She needs a home,” Colette said, standing nearby. “You take her to U.S., Grace?”
I shook my head. “No. That’s a long way from here, and my mom says no. Can you take her home, Colette?”
“Je regrette. I’m sorry. My maman, my mother, how you say?” She faked a sneeze.
“Allergies?” I asked.
“Oui.”
Sylvie sighed, as if she knew precisely what I was feeling. Unfortunately, neither of us could come to Bonbon’s rescue.
espite a rain pattering against our bedroom window, I woke up the next morning humming “Frère Jacques.” Remembering our moment with the street musicians, I felt a new surge of confidence. I’d dived straight into the music with Colette and Sylvie. I hadn’t planned for it—I had just done it! I’d made some mistakes, but I’d also had lots of fun.
Sylvie and I had enjoyed Bastille Day, a day to celebrate French independence. I smiled to myself, realizing that I felt a new sense of independence, too. Now that I was learning to jump into new situations, I wanted to experience everything here while I could. I couldn’t get enough!
I would have loved to say all this to Sylvie, but it was too much for her to understand—or for me to say in French. Instead, I said, “Bonjour, Sylvie!”
“Bonjour, Grace!” she replied. “Comment vas-tu?”
This time I had the answer to “How are you?” I replied, “Je vais bien.”
And I meant it.
I was fine. More than fine.
Poor Lily. She, unfortunately, was not doing as well as I was today. She had a cold. Her cute little nose was red, chafed, and running.
Apparently Aunt Sophie had been up all night with her. While she slept in with her door half closed, Mom tried giving Lily a bottle. But Lily was so stuffed up and her nose so gunky that she had trouble breathing and taking the bottle at the same time. In frustration, Lily squeezed her eyes tight and cried harder.
“Is she going to be okay?” I asked as Mom walked the baby up and down the hallway, around the kitchen and living area, and then down the hallway again.
“Yes, she’ll be fine,” Mom said. “Still, I’d forgotten how hard it is when a baby gets sick.”
“Did I get sick—I mean, when I was a baby?” I asked. “Did you walk me like that?”
“Well, you were a pretty healthy baby. But what I learned early on was that you didn’t want to be walked like this. Josh did. But you wanted to be put down in your crib. I think you wanted to figure things out on your own.”
Mom turned and made the circuit again, and as she came back my way, Lily stopped crying. Then Mom sat down in the rocker near a table full of baby supplies. She used a small rubber bulb to gently suction Lily’s runny nose.
I scrunched up my face. “Don’t try that thing on me.”
Mom shrugged. “Well, she’s too young to blow her nose into a tissue. We have to help her somehow.”
But the device helped. Somebody somewhere must have had a baby who needed help, and that somebody came up with a creative solution. Another good idea, I thought to myself.
Soon Lily started breathing a little more freely, and Mom offered her a bottle again. “There you go, little girl.”
Mom laughed softly. “Honey, I remember the day you found your thumb,” she said, glancing up at me. “It was as if you’d been searching for the answer, and I could almost see a little lightbulb go on in your eyes. At that moment, apparently your thumb was it.”
I smiled. “Good thing I don’t need my thumb anymore.”
“No, now you’re good,” Mom said. “You’re fine as long as you can jump on a computer to research whatever springs to that busy mind of yours, or head to a kitchen to do some baking.”
“True,” I replied.
I watched Mom finish giving little Lily her bottle. They looked so sweet together. This moment d
eserved a photo.
Click!
Then I asked Mom if I could e-mail the photo to Grandma and Grandpa.
I was surprised when Grandma e-mailed me right back to thank me. She must have finally figured out her new laptop.
Grandma: What a little sweetheart! I wish we could be there to see our new grandbaby in person, but the bakery is too busy for us to leave in the summer. It makes me happy, though, that you and your mom are there to help out.
Me: Speaking of helping out, Grandma, I keep wishing I could do more actual baking here. You know, real French stuff.
Grandma: Maybe you just need to ask?
I smiled. Sometimes the simplest answers were the hardest ones to see.
Me: Yeah. Maybe I just need to ask. Thanks, Grandma!
Downstairs at the pâtisserie, soft French music came from Colette’s phone. I hadn’t heard music in the pâtisserie kitchen before. Maybe she was trying something new, too.
“I like it,” I whispered.
“Good!” she whispered back. “But others?”
Nobody in the kitchen complained about the music, and as her phone app shuffled through various songs and artists, Colette sometimes sang along. Her voice was like wind chimes added to the pleasant whir of chatter, mixing machines, chopping, and oven timers.
After I finished a first round of dishwashing, I was ready to take on more responsibilities. But I needed to master a few basic words first.
I stood at Sylvie’s elbow as she cut a génoise cake with a pastry knife.
“Sylvie?”
She turned.
I pointed to a bowl on the counter. I now knew how to ask “What is this?”
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“Un cul de poule,” she replied.
I repeated the words slowly. Then I pointed to a wooden mixing spoon. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“Une spatule en bois,” she said.
Sylvie beamed, seeming eager to help. As we stepped around the bakery, I pointed and asked more questions. She helped me learn the French words for apron, oven, door, and floor. I learned how to say spoon, measuring cup, plate, small bowls, medium bowls, and large bowls in French. She taught me words for baking, stirring, whisking, beating, frosting, decorating, and sprinkling. I wouldn’t remember all the words after hearing them only once, but I started to recognize some of them right away from the bakers as they worked and talked with one another.
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