That's Paris

by Vicki Lesage et al.

  And Josephine wouldn’t last a second listening to the soundtrack of zombies wanting to eat her brain. I hope she packed noise-cancelling headphones in her Apocalypse Survival Kit.

  For the few who have survived up to this point, their curiosity is what’s going to get them. The people in my Parisian office have no fear of a closed door. Especially a restroom door.

  When I see a closed door in the ladies’ room, I assume it’s shut for a reason. Like, someone’s using it. Maybe not, and maybe I’m waiting like an idiot when there’s no one behind it. But considering these people can’t even take the time to throw away a used paper towel, I’d be surprised if they closed a bathroom door after they exited. So it’s usually safe to assume if the door is closed, the loo is occupied. No need to jiggle the handle and scare the crap out of the person inside (though at least they’d be in the right place for that).

  This annoying habit may seem innocuous, but wait until there’s a horde of zombies behind that door, fools. In the ZA, it’s always better to be safe than sorry. If a door’s closed, leave it—and the possible swarm of flesh-eating monsters—be.

  But the biggest reason my coworkers wouldn’t survive the Zombie Apocalypse is because they’re too busy making jokes to notice the world around them.

  The other day, someone stole Gabriel’s lunch. It was a particularly heinous crime because it was a homemade sandwich, one made with love, yet eaten with reckless abandon. Did the thief think the sandwich was his? Did he say to himself, “Hrm, I don’t remember making this sandwich, but I’m sure it’s mine?” Or was it more like, “Mmm, yummy sandwich, me hungry, food now, yum, yum, gobble gobble?” Either way, the person was an asshole. I’m not arguing that point.

  But instead of working on any number of the tasks on his ginormous to-do list, Gabriel made a parody of our company newsletter, inserting a Menu of the Week, complete with photos of his daily dishes and an invitation to “Get it while it’s hot!” It was actually quite clever. But how many dollars (or euros, as it were) flew out the window while he was creating his masterpiece? How many deadlines cruised on by?

  And in the Zombie Apocalypse, how many times would he have received a bite in the jugular while making his joke?

  That said, I might or might not have written this entire story while at work. So I guess when it comes to trying to be funny instead of concentrating on the important task at hand (wait, there’s something more important than being funny?), I’d probably end up as zombie chow myself.

  But hey, I’ve survived three years of working in a French office, so I might be better prepared than I think.

  La Dame de la Nuit

  Leslie Floyd

  I was practically in a scene from A Moveable Feast. In fact, as I sat at a table on the sidewalk patio of Les Deux Magots in the heart of Paris’s Latin Quarter, I was a little surprised to see that I wasn’t dining with Hemingway. But since I could barely see my two companions over le grand plateau de fruits de mer, a girl could imagine.

  I sipped my wine and debated what to tackle first. Lobster tail? Shrimp? Mussels? I finally decided on the oysters. There were only six, and I didn’t want Jax and Matt to snag them all while I was cracking a crab leg. I grabbed a lemon wedge and squeezed the juice on the muscle of the oyster, still delicately clinging to its shell. I closed my eyes and bit into the succulent meat, savoring the salty shock of refreshment that burst on my tongue before washing it down with another sip of the crisp white wine. I opened my eyes to find Jax and Matt staring at me, mouths agape.

  “Leslie?” asked Jax, laughing. “Should we give you a minute alone with the shellfish?”

  My boyfriend Roger had introduced me to Jax shortly before I left New York, where I’d been living for three years. I’d come to Paris for a year to attend culinary school at L’Ecole Supérieure de Cuisine Française. Jax and his friend Matt, both lifelong Upper East Side Manhattanites, were here for a semester abroad from Columbia Law. Since my culinary program hadn’t started yet, they were currently my only friends.

  “What?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m a woman who appreciates the simplicity of quality food.”

  “But maybe you could keep the moaning to a minimum. People are staring.”

  Oops. I hadn’t realized I’d become vocal whilst savoring les fruits de mer. “If it bothers anyone, they can get earplugs,” I said, popping a plump shrimp in my mouth. “I’m studying up for culinary school!” I gathered up my red hair with both hands and twisted it securely behind my neck before diving back into le plateau. Jax’s phone rang.

  “Is that them?” Matt asked. Jax nodded and stepped away from the table. Them who? The fact that Jax or Matt knew anyone else in Paris was news to me. Matt looked at me and winked. “It’s his French connection.”

  French connection? Perhaps he’d found a drug dealer? That wasn’t my thing, but I didn’t want to be a buzz kill so I gave Matt a questioning look. He continued to grin, lips sealed. When Jax returned to the table I glanced at him. “French connection?”

  “I answered an ad on Craigslist,” Jax said.

  “Oh geez,” I groaned. “Please tell me y’all are not making me tag along while you meet some chick who posted a picture of her boobs online.”

  “No!” Jax protested. “It was in the ‘Strictly Platonic’ section. Two American girls looking to meet English-speakers to hang out with.”

  “Strictly platonic, my ass,” I said. “Are you sure it wasn’t the ‘Casual Encounters’ section?” He wasn’t fooling me. Even if these girls were just looking for new friends, I knew Jax was in it for quite a bit more.

  “I swear!” he said, throwing his hands up in protest. “We’re meeting them at a pub a few blocks from here. You in?”

  “Sure, but don’t expect a fivesome from me if things aren’t strictly platonic.”

  We left Les Deux Magots and walked up rue Bonaparte toward the Seine. Cobblestones were not meant for high heels. I considered going barefoot, but figured if I chanced it, I was destined to get tetanus from a rusty nail or slip in dog poop. I soldiered on and prayed I wouldn’t trip and a rip a hole in the ass of my jeans. When we reached the Seine, I saw the sparkling lights of the Eiffel Tower and smiled. Living in Europe was no big deal to Jax and Matt, but I couldn’t believe this was my life now! After a few blocks, we reached The Great Canadian at the corner of rue des Grands-Augustins. And there, smack in the middle of the City of Light was a pub, just like the ones I’d left behind in New York.

  The bar was packed, but it wasn’t hard to find Lisa and Olivia. Both pretty blondes, Lisa was about five feet ten but had a posture that made her seem even taller. Olivia had bright green eyes and an inviting smile. I knew, without looking, that Jax was already salivating.

  “I’m so glad you came!” Lisa said, reaching out and kissing us all on both cheeks, the traditional French bise. “This is Olivia,” she said, pulling her down from a chair on which she’d been standing and belting out a song by Journey. Olivia moved her Heineken bottle/microphone away from her mouth and gave me a big hug. I already loved her.

  I made my way to the bar with Lisa and ordered a Stella Artois, my go-to favorite beer. When we walked back, Jax and Matt were lost in the crowd. Olivia came over from the makeshift dance floor and clinked my bottle with hers screaming, “STELLLAAAHH!!!” à la A Streetcar Named Desire.

  Lisa and Olivia had been in Paris since the beginning of the summer and had also met on Craigslist. Lisa had deferred her acceptance to Harvard Law School to intern at a Paris law firm3, and Olivia had come for a change of pace after losing her boyfriend and job in quick succession. “What brought you to Paris?” Lisa asked me.

  **FOOTNOTE HERE**

  3 Um, who says to Harvard, “Actually, I think I’ll wait on it. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.” I mean, I graduated in the top 10 percent of my high school class and scored nearly perfect on my SATs, yet non-Ivy Leagues had deferred me. It’s possible I was still bitter, but I was also way impressed.

&nbs
p; “Culinary school,” I said. “It starts next week.”

  “Oh my GOD!” Olivia gushed. “That is SO cool! Were you a chef in the States?”

  “No,” I told them. “I’ve just always wanted to go to culinary school in Paris. I thought that I’d go after high school, but my dad said I had to get a ‘real’ degree first.”

  “Ugh, parents can be such a pain,” said Olivia. “I can’t wait for you to cook for us! That’s not an option by the way. You will cook for us. Lots.”

  “Of course,” I said, excited that I’d made some girlfriends. “Y’all can be my guinea pigs.” Jax and Matt came by to say they were heading out, but I stayed with Lisa and Olivia until last call. Strictly platonic had worked out better for me than I’d expected.

  ~~~~

  I promised to text my new friends the next day, which was technically today, and gave them both the bise before I hopped into a cab.

  Next week I would be moving into a studio in the 15th arrondissement, but for the moment, I was staying with Guillaume, one of Roger’s friends, in the ritzy suburb of Neuilly-sur-Seine.

  “A Neuilly, s’il vous plaît,” I told the cabbie. “Au coin de la rue Bois de Boulogne et rue Longchamps.” The location of Guillaume’s apartment was one of the first phrases I’d made sure to master.

  I sighed happily, leaning my head against the window as we passed the place de la Concorde, swirling around the Obelisk to the Champs-Elysées. Even though this was the eighth time I’d taken this taxi ride home, it still looked completely surreal. Passing the gilded statues and ritzy shops and speeding toward the Arc de Triomphe, I couldn’t believe my luck.

  When we made the circle around the place Charles-de-Gaulle, the cabbie bypassed the street the other cabs I’d been in had taken and headed farther west. Many streets branch from the roundabout, and I didn’t yet know which was which, but I felt we were going in the wrong direction.

  “Monsieur?” I asked. “I’m going to Neuilly, to the corner of Bois de Boulogne and Longchamps.”

  “Oui, mademoiselle,” he replied, sticking his hand up in recognition. I sat back, guessing he preferred a different path to the other cab drivers. He could have been adding a bit to the fare, but I knew that it cost about 18 euros to get to Guillaume’s so anything above that was coming from his tip.

  Once outside Paris proper, the scenery is not nearly as exciting. But I did my best to pay attention so I could get a better feel for my surroundings. It was stressful to be a woman alone in a foreign city in the middle of the night with a random cabbie, but I relaxed when I remembered the container of Mace in my purse. I slipped my hand inside the Coach clutch, turned the spray nozzle out and placed my finger on the trigger. I’d never graduated from Brownies to Girl Scouts, but I was still always prepared.

  The cab driver turned into the Bois de Boulogne, a huge park on the western edge of Paris’s 16th arrondissement. Well over twice the size of Central Park, the Bois de Boulogne was a beautiful forest used as a hunting ground by Louis XVI. During the night, however, I’d heard it was the preferred locale for prostitution.

  My cab driver turned onto one of the two main boulevards that run through the park, Allée de Longchamp. As we drove farther, there were fewer streetlights, and the park became dark and creepy like an evil forest in a fairy tale. But instead of wicked witches, hookers started to appear. The cabbie slowed and pulled to the side of the road. What the hell was he doing? I pulled the Mace out of my clutch.

  “Where do you want me to drop you off?” he asked, waving his hand in a gesture that indicated the length of the boulevard.

  Where did I want him to drop me off?! I wanted him to drop me off at Guillaume’s where I told him to drop me off, not with a bunch of prostitutes! Then it dawned on me: The cabbie thought I was a prostitute, and he was dropping me off at work.

  “Je ne suis pas une… une…” I sputtered. Madame Lucera had not taught us the French word for “hooker.” High school French should really be more practical. And then it came to me. “Putain!” I shouted. Not only is it a choice cuss word (kind of like dropping the F-bomb), it also literally means “whore.” So there we go. Je ne suis pas une putain. I am not a whore. Nor was I dressed like one for that matter. I was dressed like a 25-year-old should be for a night out. While I wouldn’t have worn that particular outfit to church, I wouldn’t be embarrassed to wear it in front of my grandmother or my father.

  “Je ne suis pas une putain!” I repeated as I desperately flipped through my Plan de Paris to show exactly where I was going. I threw the map over the front seat and jammed my finger at the correct intersection. “I told you. I need to go to Neuilly-sur-Seine at the corner of rue de Bois de Boulogne and rue Longchamps!” I made sure he saw the can of Mace in my hand. At this point, I was royally pissed off and quite freaked out. I didn’t think one of the working girls would knife me or anything, but we were in a wooded area with very few streetlights and illicit activities going on all around us. A couple of the ladies of the night approached the cab. I just hoped they didn’t think I was trying to steal their corner.

  “Ah,” grumbled the cabbie and threw the map back at me. He slammed his foot on the accelerator, and we sped away. I watched from my window as a couple of hookers threw us the bras d’honneur, the French equivalent of the finger, in frustration.

  Okay, I could maybe see how the cabbie got confused. We were in the Bois de Boulogne on a street with the word Longchamps in it. However, we were most definitely not in Neuilly.

  We pulled out of the park, and nothing looked familiar. He could have been taking me to a human trafficking ring for all I knew. I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to dial a number.

  “You’ll never believe this,” I yelled into dead air. “The cab driver thought I was a hooker!” I paused, listening to the imaginary person on the other end of the line. “I know baby, but I’ll be home soon,” I said, then rattled off the cab driver’s name and tag number that was listed on the back of the front passenger seat. I didn’t know if the driver understood English, but I figured he’d have at least made out his name and tag number. If he thought someone was waiting up for me and that I’d given this person his identifying information, he’d be far less likely to sell me or my organs, or leave me bleeding on the side of a highway. After what felt like three hours but was probably more like 15 minutes, our surroundings started to look familiar. I could see the industrial skyline of La Défense in the distance, and we passed the Italian restaurant I’d gone to with Guillaume a few nights before. As soon as I saw Guillaume’s building, I glanced at the fare meter.

  Thirty-four euros. No way. I was not paying this jackass 34 euros after he mistook me for a prostitute.

  I leapt from the cab, throwing a 20-euro note through his open window. Ignoring his heated protests, I raced to the door and punched in the code. Feeling a blast of moxie and not a small amount of relief, I slammed the heavy iron door shut. This lady of the night had more than paid her dues.

  Paris Legacy

  Violette

  Frédérique Veysset

  Thomas called to tell me that Violette had passed away, but my intuition had been one step ahead. I’d had the feeling before even leaving Paris. It was the school vacation period and my parents wanted to see Paloma. I took a few days off so I could accompany her to visit her grandparents. The return trip to Paris was long and sad. I didn’t cry even though I so wanted to.

  Violette came into our lives 12 years ago. We had just moved to the apartment on rue Servandoni, and she was our neighbor. We quickly became friends. She was already elderly at the time, but still attractive, lively and well put together with a dash of rose-scented perfume.

  Our neighboring apartments were on the third floor of a building without an elevator. I got into the habit of doing Violette’s shopping along with my own. I had her keys. We stopped by whenever we liked to bring her a bowl of soup or a slice of cake.

  Every afternoon, when Paloma got home from school, she did her homewor
k at Violette’s place while she waited for us. It was a solid ritual that Paloma continued even as a teenager.

  Violette, who loved the French language and beautiful stories, taught Paloma to read at the tender age of four. I hadn’t realized this until the preschool teacher stopped me one morning.

  “Madame Layracque, it would be better if Paloma waited for the other children before learning to read.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Paloma knows how to read, throwing her completely off schedule compared with her classmates. She must wait for them to catch up.”

  The teacher clearly separated each word as she spoke and bobbed her head up and down like a chicken.

  “It’s too early,” she continued. “They learn to read at age six and not earlier!”

  That evening, I proudly confirmed that Paloma, although not yet ready to devour Le Monde newspaper, was easily able to read her children’s books.

  Violette’s studio apartment was small but bright, overlooking the Luxembourg Gardens. The concierge came by every morning to clean and the nurse’s aide stopped by to help her bathe. When I picked up Paloma in the evening, we spoke of this and that, or sometimes my job. I treasured these calm moments with her as we sipped sage tea.

  When we had first moved into the building, Violette would come with Paloma and me to the gardens, but soon the three flights became too much.

  “It’s my arthritis!” complained Violette.

  Her back was hunched, but curiously, her hands were beautiful. They were always manicured, and rings decorated each finger.

  Violette’s attorney had taken care of everything. She had received precise instructions for the Mass, the cemetery, the flowers. A few days before the burial, she called us to attend the reading of the will.