2. CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
The bustle of Charles de Gaulle had a different tenor than that of Heathrow. I walked past people casually sipping their coffees. No one was dashing through the terminal, desperate to make their flight. It was a lazier, more relaxed vibe.
I smiled, for the first time feeling as though I was in someplace other .
When I emerged from the final metro station, it was to a lively street glimmering with neon lights and the steady heartbeat of club music. Car horns honked aggressively. Couples walked by hand in hand. To my joy, the windmill of the Moulin Rouge turned in a languid circle ahead.
My hotel was just around the corner, and I found it easily. I breezed through check-in and collapsed onto my bed. It squeaked in protest. If it hadn’t been for Bertha’s weight crushing me from above, I would’ve refused to move. Instead, I went through the absolute essentials of my bedtime routine: shower, teeth brushed, pajamas on. I crawled beneath the covers, the sounds of the nighttime crowd living their best lives tapping on the windowpane behind the old-fashioned curtains.
After a quick internet search the next morning, I boarded the train and landed on the opposite side of the Seine. My target was a café I’d spotted on Instagram, a place so quaint it was practically a cliché, as were the picture-perfect pastries I eagerly devoured there. I only wanted to spend three days in Paris, so I’d divided up my to-do list as evenly as possible. Today was Notre Dame, getting lost in the streets of the 6th arrondissement, and eventually making my way to the Eiffel Tower by dusk. I’d tossed a coin between visiting by day or night. Night had won. Everything I had read said Paris at night glittered.
I lost myself in the gorgeous neighborhoods. Without meaning to, the day trickled through my grasp. Upon leaving Notre Dame, the sun was already closer to the horizon than I would have expected. I crossed the Seine, zigzagging through streets where little boutique shops displayed stylish clothes, rare books, and more. I stopped in a few to browse, the shopkeepers giving me a terse nod or automatic “Bonjour,” before returning to their work. It felt odd compared to the overtly friendly sales associates in American stores. At least these people didn’t follow you like puppies.
After a few hours of exploring, night began its takeover of the city. Ahead, the Eiffel Tower radiated amber before it was suddenly set ablaze with glittering lights, its spotlight reaching across all of Paris. My footsteps slowed as I took in the show before it returned to its normal glow, the backdrop of a dusky blue sky its perfect complement.
Once in the tower, I ascended each platform, pausing to take in the views. By the time I reached the top, it was fully dark, the barest hint of horizon delineating where the sky and streets began and ended. I pushed against the railing, mesmerized as I stared down.
I strolled along the viewing platform, snapping pictures from each angle, before claiming my spot and gazing out at the Seine, trying to commit it to memory. The grand arch of the Arc de Triomphe stood out on my right. Past it toward the horizon, the domed church I knew to be Sacré Coeurstood bathed in spotlights. I tried to get my bearings, turned around in this large city set into a grid of spirals.
Movement at the corner of the platform caught my eye, and I watched an older couple, perhaps in their late fifties or early sixties, exchange a kiss. She stood pressed to the railing with his arms wrapped around her. She nestled deeper against him, her neck curved so her head rested on his shoulder. His head drooped to the side with his cheek against her forehead as they both took in the sight. There was something about them that was intoxicating to watch. Her elegant faux-fur coat billowed in the breeze, her sleek gray hair cropped bluntly at the jaw. His brown suede hat was pushed back on his head so it wouldn’t impede her view. They just looked so comfortable, so at peace, so right. Two people cut from the same swath of fabric and stitched back together with a bond that wouldn’t break even when they eventually moved apart. I turned to avoid staring, only to find that another couple was making out passionately on the opposite end. My head jerked forward.
Something hollow pitted deep inside me. I could feel it, as if it’d been sitting there, waiting for me to notice. I frowned. This was the city of love. I shouldn’t be surprised that I was one person among many couples. The idea of traveling alone truly hadn’t bothered me. Heaven knows I’d been asked about it often enough. So why were my insides squirming?
I pushed the feelings down where they belonged as I began my descent, taking one last stroll at each level. The general thrum of voices surrounded me, various dialects melding from the mass of tourists. Walking along the first level, I watched people scurry about like ants far below through a transparent pane in the floor. I crouched, drawing patterns across the glass, imagining a building here and another there, creating my own cityscape for them to explore.
A silky voice called out in French from my right.
My head whipped around, and I spotted a young man. His expression was a mix of wonder and horror as he stared straight at me, meanwhile standing as far away from the tower’s center as he could manage. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he was speaking to me before responding. “Sorry, I don’t speak French.”
The tightness between his brows relaxed a fraction as he said in English, “How are you doing that? ”
“Doing what?”
“Looking down like it’s nothing?” His thick accent rounded his words beautifully.
I realized the problem and stood, stepping onto the glass where I’d just been doodling, and performed a spin. “Oh, this?” I quipped innocently with a flourish.
His Adam's apple bobbed.
I shook my head as I walked toward him, my fingertips skimming across the clear barrier surrounding the chasm. “Why are you up here if you’re afraid of heights?”
He pointed overhead. “My friends are there. They wanted to do it. I couldn’t go any further, so I wait.”
I stopped next to him, solid floor once again beneath my feet. “There are easier ways to impress a girl,” I said with a wink, trying to distract him from his discomfort.
He turned to face the city and closed his eyes. “I think I may be sick.”
“I’m going down,” I offered sympathetically. “Want to come?”
Even in the darkness, his pallor was a pale green as he gave a tight nod.
We squished into the back of the elevator. A loudly crying child pierced our eardrums the entire claustrophobic ride. By the time the doors slid open, my ears were ringing.
“Safe and sound,” I announced.
His eyes flew open, and he took a deep breath as he stepped out.
“Never again.” His long strides propelled him beneath the belly of the tower. He craned his neck skyward. “Idiots.”
“Are you all right?” I asked, inching away.
“Yes, thank you.” He followed me a few steps.
“Um, I’m going that way,” I said, gesturing vaguely toward the river.
“Oh.” He hesitated before pointing up at the tower. “Would you like to join us? Once they come down, I’m taking them to visit a few clubs. I could show you the real side of Paris.” As he spoke, he pulled out a pouch of tobacco and began rolling a cigarette. It was mesmerizing. He did it so effortlessly, barely looking down before he finished and pinched it between his full lips. The spark of flame from the lighter highlighted his dark eyes as he peered at me.
A flutter tickled my insides. He was cute, I had to admit, though a few years younger than me. But hadn’t I just been feeling left out being alone?
“Sure, that sounds great,” I said, grinning.
He returned it as he puffed out a tendril of smoke. “I’m Alexandre.”
“Mallory.”
We sat and chatted, looking out over the giant lawn until his friends joined us. From there, our group crawled from dark, underground rooms packed with people, the first paying homage to Paris’s golden age while the next sizzled with laser lights. The music was a mishmash of eclectic French songs and oldies I recognized from my mom’s collection at home. Whenever one came on that I knew, I belted out the lyrics, tone-deafness be damned.
As the evening wore on, the music changed, sultry house beats taking over. People ground together on the dance floor, the mood in the club morphing with the new sounds. Alexandre and I swayed, bodies close, his hand running gently along the back of my neck. It was pleasant, the warmth of drink sweeping through my body, the pulse of music a heartbeat through my skin. Reluctantly, I twisted Alexandre’s hand to check his watch.
I tapped its glass face with my nail. “Time for me to go.”
“It’s still early.” His fingers brushed away a sweaty strand of hair stuck to my nose.
“Maybe for you,” I scoffed lightly, pulling out of his arms. One of my hands was still clasped in his. He didn’t let go at first, but when I didn’t falter, he brought it to his lips for a quick kiss, a pat, and let it drop.
“How long are you in Paris?”
“A few days,” I said. “Thank you for tonight. I had fun. You’re a good tour guide. ”
He made a flashy bow, his hand waving him down as his eyes glittered mischievously. “Happy to be of service, mademoiselle.”
We wove through the dancers back to our group, where I bade his friends farewell. Alexandre escorted me outside.
“Do you know your way?”
“I think so.” I punched directions to the hotel into my phone. “Yep, not too far.”
“Good.” He took my phone and added his number to my contacts. “In case you are ever in Paris again,” he explained, handing it back to me.
“Thanks,” I chuckled warmly. “I’ll take you up on that.” I held out my hand, and he shook it, but also pulled me in to kiss me on either cheek. “Au revoir.”
He stifled a laugh at my horrible accent. “Bonne nuit.”
Then he turned, disappearing back into the club with a swoosh of his charcoal overcoat. I matched it, sad to see him go even as my feet moved forward, carrying me through the magical streets of Paris.
The next day, I shifted my notepad awkwardly to my other knee, finishing off my first note to my new friend Gail as my bus sat in traffic, heading to the seaside town of Marseille.
The architecture, even the entrances to the metro stations, were amazing! I won’t say how many croissants I ate (it was a lot, okay?). I think I pissed off a few Parisians with my terrible French, but I tried my best. It’s a strange feeling, just the difference between how people behave or their demeanor or something. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Alexandre and his friends were nice at least (and he was cute, I’ll admit it). He texted me a few local Paris spots to check out and messaged again this morning wishing me a nice trip, so I’ve already made another friend! :) Between you and Alexandre, I think I’m off to a good start.
Anyway, that’s all for now. I hope you made it home safely, and I will write again soon.
Your friend,
Mallory
I’d bought cheap postcards on a whim at the Paris bus station. The first one I wrote was to my mom as I waited to depart. It was heavily redacted, just the basics about my days in the city. In this second one to Gail, I blathered about every detail, including the juicy ones about Alexandre. It was true, though, I mused as I reread it for spelling errors. There was an unmistakable difference between the people here and what I was used to back home. And that was okay. I had been expecting differences—hoping for them, in fact.
But this?
The culture shock upon arriving in Marseille was on an entirely different level.
I wove through the concrete station, startled when a pair of assault rifles turned the corner ahead of me, their owners dressed in military garb. They passed me, chatting away, and I couldn’t help but turn as I walked, watching them. They weren’t running toward trouble, no alarms sounding, no mad mob on their tail.
I shook it off, pulling Bertha’s straps tighter around my shoulders like a hug. As I moved through the crowd, I took my phone out of my pocket, hopped onto the station Wi-Fi, and punched in directions to the apartment’s address. Twisting in the right direction, I headed outside, crossing a busy intersection and winding through sun-soaked sidewalks, the wind whipping harshly at my face through the narrow streets. Finally, these opened up to a broad square.
Buskers played in a cacophony of contradictory sounds against the background lap of waves, which licked the hulls of boats docked in the harbor. The toot of a small train, similar to an amusement park kiddie ride, drew my attention as it slithered away from the curb, chock-full of tourists. I watched as it weaved through the streets, heading up a hill to where an enormous church sat sentinel above the town.
Following its path to my left, the sparkle of the sea dazzled me even as the stronger wind drew tears from my eyes. I put on my sunglasses and it helped a little as I studied my map. I was close, but the tiny side streets were unlabeled as far as I could tell. I tried one street, then another, but each time ended up back at the harbor, my apartment remaining hidden. I pulled up the booking app, thankful for the slow spot of data my phone discovered, and messaged the property.
Surprisingly quickly, I received a text back.
Where are you? it read.
I searched in vain for a street sign, instead typing in the name of the restaurant across from me.
I’ll come get you.
I didn’t wait long. A tanned man, perhaps in his early thirties, was making directly for me with sure steps. Did I have a sign blaring FOREIGNER strapped around my neck or something?
“Hello,” he said. “Are you looking for Appartement Magnifique?”
“Yes,” I replied, recognizing the name from my booking.
“Welcome to Marseille,” he said with a grin.
“Thank you.” I returned his smile with my own and offered a hand. He took it and promptly brought it to his mouth. I flushed.
“You were nearly there. It’s just this way.”
I followed him to the first street I’d tried, but he turned to the right down a dark alley, dim even in the bright, late-day sun. A whitewashed building with twisted staircases led up to my room on the third floor. He opened the door to my room, and I walked in. It was a studio, complete with a wide futon, kitchen, and balcony overlooking a U-shaped courtyard.
“There’s tea and coffee in here,” he said, moving about the kitchen and opening a cupboard. “Help yourself. And at the end of your stay, just put the key back in the mailbox. There’s a false bottom inside.” He held up an old-fashioned brass key with a bright orange chain, then set it on the kitchen table.
“Thank you. This is lovely.”
He smiled again, looking me over as he tucked a lock of his shoulder-length chestnut hair behind one ear. “Where are you from?”
“America.”
He laughed. “Well, yes, I gathered. But where?”
“Oh,” I chuckled. “A small town in the middle of Nowhere, USA.”
His brows raised in question, so I explained.
“Is this your first time in Marseille?”
“It is.”
“Ah.” He shuffled toward the door. “Do you want a tour today?”
“Really? Sure, that would be great. Could I clean up first, though?” I laughed. “I’ve been on a bus for a few hours, and I wouldn’t want to subject you to that.”
He smiled, then checked his watch. “Seven?”
“Perfect.”
“I’ll meet you at home.”
“Your home?”
“No, yours.” He raised an eyebrow at me as he left. “I know where you live.” The door closed softly behind him.