Excerpt (Continued)
 Loud music assaulted
my ears. Two men in denim overalls pulled a buffing machine from a closet
by the elevator. Their boom box blasted American pop music at full volume
as they prepared to clean floors. Fleeing the building, I passed the Planet
Hollywood club, its windows displaying ultra-geeky mannequins in gaudy
outfits and space glasses. So much for Paris fashion.
A thin fog drifted in
as I walked along the deserted sidewalk—not just down any street
but the most famous boulevard anywhere. I stopped at the window of the
Brioche Dorée. Tasty-looking croissants, raisin wheels, apricot rolls,
and strawberry tarts beckoned, but the sign said Fermé (Closed).
I heard a putt-putt sound and spotted first one, then another, spring-green
contraption. Soon, several of them were buzzing along the sidewalk. Silly
gizmos…no, ingenious. They were a cross between a street sweeper,
a mini garbage truck, and a miniature bucket-truck that can lift a person.
I watched as a fellow in an orange jumpsuit pulled his green truck in
front of a darker green kiosk, elevated himself in his bucket, and began
cleaning the structure with a jet of water.
I stopped at an ATM, requested 2000 francs ($350), and received it in
a few seconds—a modern miracle. Everything was working great and
feeling good. And this was Paris—too exciting to miss. Time to go
wake Marguerite.
***
Half an hour later, still rubbing sleep from her eyes, Marguerite accompanied
me along the grand avenue toward the Arc de Triomphe. The sight of the
imposing monument filled me with awe.
Marguerite wrapped herself tighter in her jacket and put her arm around
my waist. “You got me out here. Now I need coffee.”
I led her to a brasserie,
just opening for the day, and checked the menu. “We’re not
getting it here. It’s $10 for only two croissants and a coffee to
share.”
“That’s crazy. We’ll never make our budget.” We
had decided we could spend up to $50 a day on food, entertainment, and
incidentals.
We hustled down rue
Lincoln, a side street, to the Bar-Brasserie Saucisson, a little place
with red leather booths and a bartender in black vest and bow tie. I helped
Marguerite onto a stool and ordered croissants and cafés au lait.
“Cafés crèmes,” the waiter corrected.
“Man, I don’t even know how to order coffee.”
The barman gestured
toward a booth and rattled off some French, which I comprehended not at
all. But I got the gist and said, “Non, merci.”
“The guidebooks were right,” I told Marguerite. “If
we follow his suggestion and sit at a table, the prices will double.”
“This is a lovely
stool.” Marguerite shifted to get more comfortable, as the barman
eyed us to see if we would reconsider.
The coffee and croissants
arrived. I requested confitures. The barman—a laconic, short-haired,
sharp-nosed fellow—understood my French just fine and set a bowl
of rich peach preserves before me, but he replied with not a word that
I could recognize. Was he a French Eliza Doolittle, or did he intentionally
put on this accent to befuddle tourists?
I devoured two pastries
to Marguerite’s one, and then we shared another. “The best
croissants in the world,” I proclaimed. Indeed they were, but the
four croissants and three large crèmes we consumed were all the
more delicious because we spent less than half of what we would have at
the other brasserie.
“I am satisfied beyond belief,” Marguerite said, yawning.
“But I feel a nap coming on.”
“But…but…don’t you want to see the city?”
“We have a month.”
A whole month—learning about Paris…learning a little French
…beginning to watch expenses. Outside, sidewalks glistened with the
moisture of a recent washing. The fog was beginning to dissipate. Everything
was new, bright, and thrilling.
Marguerite agreed to visit the tourist office first and to stop in at
the Métro to buy monthly passes, but then I took her home and left her
to nap with Felicia.
It was late in the morning as I walked along the Seine. I crossed the
elaborate, gold-statued Alexander III Bridge and glimpsed the Eiffel Tower
in the distance. It was all still sinking in.
From the riverbank near the Musée d’Orsay, I spotted the expansive
palace of the Louvre farther down across the Seine, then the funky booksellers
along the quay, and Notre Dame. I watched a juggler on a unicycle perform
for a crowd on the bridge to the Ile Saint-Louis, and then my eyes circled
the island with its quaint, elegant apartment buildings.
Part of me longed to be with Marguerite, as she slept with Felicia curled
against her chest…to share our first moments…in our Paris
apartment…on the Champs-Elysées, our home for all of April.
We had dreamed and planned and hoped for so long. This couldn’t
be real. But with each street and each city square like a museum before
me, I knew it was. We were really here, living our dream. Would it pass
too quickly? Would I be back at work in the blink of an eye?
Our year of Sundays was beginning. |
