I was only beginning. I had so much to learn. But now I felt hungry, ready to sponge up every little word and phrase and skill around me.
Then Sylvie started testing me. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
She was the teacher.
I tried to be a smart student, but when I confused words or butchered saying a word, Sylvie cracked up.
“Hey! You wouldn’t be a good teacher if you laughed whenever your students made mistakes,” I said, smiling.
She was still giggling, even though I knew she didn’t get what I’d said. But Colette laughed out loud.
Then I started to giggle, too. I couldn’t help it! I tried to swallow my next outburst, but I couldn’t. Pretty soon we were all giggling so loud that Uncle Bernard looked over our way.
And we giggled two seconds longer.
I drew a deep breath and made myself stop.
“Colette,” I finally ventured. “At home, I love to bake. Can you teach me how to bake here?”
“Oui, oui!” She looked over at Sylvie, who was brushing egg white on something. “Sylvie,” she began, and then rattled off a whole lot of French I couldn’t understand.
Sylvie finished the last of what she was doing and then joined us for what I silently called “Baking with Colette” class.
Over the next few days, Colette took us through several recipes. First were the madeleines. We mixed flour, salt, sugar, and baking powder, and then added egg yolk, melted butter, and slightly beaten egg whites.
The recipe should have been easy, I thought, but I made a few blunders.
With all of the measurements in metric, it felt weird measuring to the nearest gram or milliliter. Where were my familiar cups and tablespoons? I ruined a whole bowl of batter by measuring out 25 grams of salt instead of 2.5 grams—or a half teaspoon.
When Colette sampled the batter, she made a face. “Start again,” she said and quickly emptied the bowl’s contents into the garbage.
I was so embarrassed. Back home, I would have known the difference between ten teaspoons of salt and a half teaspoon. But here, I was so focused on grams that I started thinking I was measuring sugar instead of salt.
Yuck!
After that mistake, I gave myself my own timeout—or at least time to better understand these new measurements. And after that, I made myself return to my dictionary and refresh my memory of important baking words:
sel (salt)
sucre (sugar)
farine (flour)
By the end of one workday, we were putting the finishing touches on a vanilla millefeuille, a layered pastry with a glazed top. The swirled chocolate and vanilla icing was so beautiful, almost like a painting. I thought of the lines waiting to get into the art museum, the Louvre. Wasn’t baking an art, too?
“C’est beau!” said Sylvie, admiring our creation.
“We should taste, oui?” Colette said.
We cleaned up, hung up our aprons, and arranged slices of the millefeuille on pretty plates. Then we sat outside the pâtisserie. The shade of stone buildings fell across our little table and the beautiful French treat that I’d actually helped bake. I felt so proud, and amazed that despite my mistakes, I’d learned some really cool new baking skills. I pulled out my phone.
Click!
“Do you want to look or eat?” Colette asked me and Sylvie.
I turned to Sylvie. I couldn’t tell if she understood or not. What was the phrase? Then it came to me. “Sylvie. Veux-tu manger?”
“Oui, oui!” She laughed and then took a bite.
“Bon appétit!” Colette said.
I joined in, chewing slowly and letting the flavors linger on my taste buds.
Colette and Sylvie both waited for my opinion.
“Ooo-la-la!” I said.
That evening, I posted our bakery creation on my blog. My caption: Art You Can Eat!
Under a late-afternoon sun, I biked after Mom as she jogged. But every few blocks I had to stop to take pictures. I couldn’t help it! I snapped photos of the display cases in every boulangerie and pâtisserie we passed.
Click-click-click-click-click!
“Grace,” Mom scolded as I caught up to her. I straddled my bike beside her, waiting for her to catch her breath before the light turned green.
Mom leaned forward with her hands on her thighs, talking in short spurts. “Between Lily’s cold…” she said, “and now your obsession with taking photos…on every block…I wonder if I’ll ever…get back to my running routine.”
She took a few long, deep breaths and then began talking again, more to the pavement than to me. “I thought…I could manage to stay on track…while we’re here…but I’ve fallen…way behind schedule.”
I wasn’t sure what to say at first. Mom sounded so down. But then I thought of what she might say to me if I were feeling that way. “Mom,” I said. “You’re in Paris. Did you think everything would be the same as at home?”
She hesitated and then said, “Of course not.”
“So don’t be so hard on yourself. Try to stay loose,” I added. I stepped in front of her and shook out my arms and legs as dramatically as I could, just as she’d done when we’d first arrived at the airport here.
Mom stared at me with a straight face for a second or two, as if deciding whether to laugh out loud or scold me again, but then she broke into a smile. “Look who’s the teacher now.”
When the light turned green, she was ready to run again. We crossed toward the river, where a painter was at his easel capturing Notre Dame towering above the shimmering Seine. It would have made a perfect photo. I almost grabbed my phone, but I didn’t. This time I just enjoyed the view, keeping pace with Mom so that she could finish her route without stopping.
When we returned, little Bonbon was hanging around the pâtisserie door, waiting for dinner, just as she had been for the last couple of nights.
Mom smiled. “Hello, little dog,” she said, extending her hand, but Bonbon backed away, regarding her suspiciously.
“She has a name now,” I said.
“Oh?”
“Bonbon.”
“That’s really cute,” Mom said, keeping her hand outstretched. Soon, Bonbon inched closer again, sniffed her hand, and began to wag her little tail. Then she let Mom pet her head and back. “You like that, don’t you?” Mom said sweetly.
“Stay here, Mom. I’ll be right back,” I said and then hurried inside.
When I returned with a bowl of dog food, I set it down in front of Bonbon. “Here you go!”
She wolfed down her food, and then she nudged the palm of my hand, as if to say “Thanks.”
Mom watched the two of us thoughtfully. Then she said, “Grace, remember that just because you name her—and feed her—doesn’t mean we can bring her home.”
“I know.” I sighed heavily.
Mom went on. “And I still can’t help wondering, sweetie, if the most responsible thing to do is to call the animal shelter here and get her off the street.”
I jumped up. “But Mom, you heard Aunt Sophie—she might be put down!”
Mom reached for my hand. “Or,” she said gently, “she might be reconnected with her owners, or find a new home.”
“Might,” I repeated sadly. “I don’t like that word.”
Mom rubbed my back. “I know. I’m sorry.” Then she changed her tone. “But Grace, one thing’s for sure: You’ve shown me that you can be very responsible. This stray is lucky to have you caring for her, at least until she finds a home.”
Mom was complimenting me, but I felt a big lump in my throat. Bonbon looked up at me, her eyes so round and so dear. I wanted to cry. Instead, I pulled out my phone so that I could capture that sweet face and this moment. How many more would we have together?
Click!
Long after Mom went in for a shower, I sat beside Bonbon. I worried about what would happen to her when I left. Colette couldn’t take her in. Sylvie couldn’t either. There had to be somebody who could give her a home.
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br /> he night was still and warm. As Sylvie stretched across her bed and read a book, I sat on my mattress and updated my blog.
The window to the street was open, but our floor fan drowned out most of the sounds from the outdoor cafés and helped cool us down.
I posted a photo of Bonbon with the caption: My new four-legged friend.
By the time I’d posted a few other images, Ella had posted a message responding to my Bonbon photo:
Ella: Soooo cute! Maddy’s here with me. We both love your little friend.
I did a quick mental calculation. Nine at night in Paris meant three in the afternoon at home. I pictured my friends sitting side by side at Ella’s family computer in her living room. They seemed close right now, as I wrote to them, and yet terribly far away.
Me: I do too! She’s adorable.
Ella: Can you fly her home for us??? Ha!
Me: Wish I could! But my mom won’t let me. : {
Ella: Too bad.
I quickly changed the subject.
Me: Hey, speaking of dogs, how’s it going with your business?
Ella: Maddy and I are drumming up customers! We just added Dr. Mueller and his wife. They want us to walk their big dog, Tornado, every afternoon at four. Woohoo!
A pang of jealousy wedged itself under my ribs. I wanted to be happy for my friends—I really did. But I felt so left out. I made myself type anyway.
Me: Good for you!
I next posted photos from my morning bike ride. Behind glass windows lay neat rows of treats of every size and color: round and square, triangular and rectangular, topped or filled with chocolate, strawberry, raspberry, blueberry, or mango.
For captions, I wrote:
Sure, Paris is known for its Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame, for berets and baguettes, for fashionable women walking little dogs. And all that’s here. And more! But what do I LOVE? The pâtisseries! The boulangeries! No wonder my aunt came here and stayed…
Ella: LOL! You’re so weird! Don’t get any funny ideas. You can’t stay. We miss you here!
I think I smiled from ear to ear when I read that line. I glanced over at Sylvie, to see if she’d caught me. But she was deep into her reading.
Me: Miss you too—lots! I can’t wait to share some new recipes with you two. I’m learning more each day at my uncle’s bakery.
Ella: Fun!
We chatted back and forth about where they’d been swimming and about my singing along with street musicians. But I felt a huge yawn coming on. I was definitely now on Paris time. I signed off.
Me: Bedtime here. Bonsoir!
Just then, a golden paw appeared beneath the bedroom door. It swished left and right, as if fishing for something.
I pulled the bookmark out of my travel guide and dangled the tassel near the crack under the door. Napoléon batted at it instantly, held it like a prize beneath his paw, and then let it go. Then he scratched at the door.
When I opened it, he strolled in. He leaped up onto Sylvie’s bed and stretched out beside her. Not even the fan could drown out his happy purring.
I lay back on my own bed and sighed, wishing I had a pet to curl up beside me.
I scrolled down to the photo I’d posted of Bonbon. Her sweet black eyes stared back at me, as if trying to tell me something important.
My heart twisted.
I whispered beneath my breath, “I’d take you home, Bonbon—if only I could.”
Geraniums bloomed bright red on the tiny balcony off the kitchen and living area. Classical music filled the room. Sylvie and I took turns holding Lily on the couch.
Sylvie sat with pillows on either side of her and held Lily in the crook of her arm. We talked bébé talk. And little Lily’s tiny lips moved and almost smiled in response.
“Such a beautiful little girl!” I said as her tiny fingers wrapped around my forefinger.
“Quel beau bébé!” Sylvie would say, and Lily would give her another adoring look that warmed me to my toes. With each passing day, I was feeling more a part of this family, despite our language barrier. One thing was certain: Neither Sylvie nor I had any trouble understanding little Lily’s language.
One Sunday after Lily’s nap, we joined Mom and Aunt Sophie on a walk to the Luxembourg Gardens. It was our first real outing all together, and I prided myself on recognizing a few landmarks, including the fountain with the lions. Things were becoming more familiar for me, but I still didn’t want to be left on my own to find my way!
Beyond the gate, the gardens stretched on forever. I made a note of a few “rules” I wanted to post later on my blog:
Don’t walk or play on the perfectly manicured grass.
Do sail the little remote-controlled sailboats across the round pond.
Do race go-carts down the long path—twice. I pedaled a red one first, and then a yellow!
On the playground, Sylvie and I scaled the miniature Eiffel Tower made with bungee cords. We were climbing the cords almost to the top when we heard the bells.
Cling, clang! Cling, clang!
Outside the squat nearby building, a man with a round face clanged a bell. His dark jacket stretched over his middle as he swung the handbell up and down.
Cling, clang! Cling, clang!
Kids around us slid down slide chutes and scurried off wooden ladders and platforms, as if the Pied Piper were calling to them. Parents left benches and gathered up toddlers, and soon Sylvie and I were waiting in line, heading for the building with the sign: Les Marionettes. A puppet show!
Most of the kids were younger (I guessed around four or five years old), but that gave me confidence. I’d been picking up more French every day, so surely I could understand a puppet show put on for little kids.
Aunt Sophie said to me, “Three Little Pigs, Grace.”
“Good,” I said with a smile. “Something I know.”
Inside, rows of chairs and benches faced the curtained stage and a hum of chatter filled the air. Pictures of puppet characters lined the walls. The cat with a floppy hat must be Puss in Boots. The long-nosed character was Pinocchio. And I also saw pictures of Snow White and Captain Hook.
Mom sat in back with Aunt Sophie and Baby Lily, just in case she started to cry and they needed to make a quick exit. But Sylvie and I headed for the middle seats.
When the theater darkened and lights went up onstage, the audience grew silent. But the moment pig puppets dressed in jackets and trousers popped up, the audience broke into applause and cheers. An electric charge of excitement filled the room, and I clapped along to the music, glancing at Sylvie and sharing a quick smile. She’d probably been coming to this theater for as long as she could remember.
As the puppets began speaking, I settled in and focused, waiting for their words to become clear and take on meaning for me. They began asking the audience questions, and the littlest kids sitting in the front row responded.
The questions the puppets asked started with quoi, pourquoi, or qui, which meant what, why, and who.
I got that much, and I heard the word travail.
Work.
Those three little pigs were good workers, with their houses made of straw, wood, and bricks. But I only got that much because I already knew the story.
As the pig puppets danced and sang, the children squealed with delight and cheered them on.
A hush fell whenever the wolf appeared.
I tried really, really hard to understand the words. I knew the basic story, of course, but this version had twists and turns that I didn’t expect. And I understood only a word here and a word there.
Travail.
Work. Work. Work.
Here’s what I did understand: Learning French was much more work than I’d thought it would be. I sank slowly in my chair. I’d expected to be speaking French and understanding it easily by this time in my visit. Yet I still understood so little!
I felt like an outsider, like someone who can’t read in a world of readers. Instead of being part of the audience as it chimed in an
d cheered and clapped, I felt totally left out. I just wanted the play to end.
When the lights finally came up and the audience cheered for the puppet master, the very man who had been ringing the bell outside, I breathed a sigh of relief and clapped along with the others.
But as parents and children rose and filed out, I stayed seated and confessed to Sylvie, “I didn’t understand a word! Well, maybe two or three.”
She nodded. “Like English for me,” she said, looking at her lap. “Très difficile!”
“Very difficult,” I translated.
She nodded, her eyes wide. “Oui!”
I exhaled deeply. If English was difficult for Sylvie, why did I think I could learn her language overnight? Maybe because at home, I was used to getting good grades and doing pretty well at most things I tried. I wasn’t used to feeling so…stupid. But I knew that I wasn’t stupid—and that Sylvie probably felt the same way whenever I used English, expecting her to understand. In some ways, we had much more in common than I’d realized.
I pulled out my dictionary and looked up the French word for cousin. To my surprise, it listed the same spelling: cousin.
I showed it to her. “Cousin,” I said. “We spell it the same way!”
She smiled. “Oui! Boy cousin. Same. But girl cousine…” She pointed to me and then to herself.
At first I didn’t get it. “Oh, you add an e at the end for female. I get it.”
Sylvie nodded, happy that I had understood her. We stood up, nearly the last ones to leave, and headed up the aisle toward the red sign with the word SORTIE.
“Ah,” I said. “Exit.’”
“Exit,” Sylvie repeated, following my gaze. Then she linked her arm in mine and said, “We cousins.”
“Oui,” I replied, squeezing her arm. “Our mothers are sisters.”
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