Chapter 24 #2
“The truth. That you’re engaged, we’re friends, and you’re my client, and I’m going to show you the real Paris.”
Engaged. Friends. It was a messy start. They turned onto Rue de Rivoli, then entered a park situated much like Central Park—an oasis in the middle of busy traffic and the hum of urban chaos during peak tourist season.
“This is the 17th-century Jardin des Tuileries. We’re just cutting through, but we’ll stop for gelato near the fountain on our way back to the hotel.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I love it here! In a way, it reminds me of Central Park.”
“I was just thinking that.” Although he grew up close to Central Park, he rarely visited since The Breakup. The best he could emotionally manage was a view from the new townhouse.
“Throughout, there are a bunch of Maillol bronze sculptures, which you’d go crazy for. Not far from here is my favorite haunt—The Musée de l’Orangerie, the most amazing museum for Impressionistic work. It’s the home of Monet’s Water Lilies.”
“Can we stop in now? I’d like to see that,” he said, eager to spend more time exploring the garden and her beloved Monet.
“Let’s come back to the museum tomorrow night. They’ll be open until eleven.”
“After an early dinner at Benoit! Sounds perfect.” He could understand why she loved Paris and this park with its green space, green bikes, and green chairs.
When her world had taken a brave detour into the unknown after The Breakup, she was surrounded by vibrant people and a new life filled with color and culture.
Lizzy was in her element here, and he would have been, too. “How big is the park?”
“Huge. It stretches to the Louvre. We’ll pass the museum, but we won’t be going there. It’s outrageously crowded this time of year. Oh! And watch out for pigeons,” she said with a wicked chuckle. “Those Frenchie flying rats will dive bomb and poop all over you.”
“Again, with the French shit.”
She laughed, then continued to point out various gardens and Parisian history as they navigated the bikes through throngs of tourists, particularly when they got closer to the Arc de Triomphe and the Louvre.
As they exited the garden, she pointed ahead. “This is the right bank of the Seine. We have to go to the Left Bank. It’ll be an easier trip from here and a lot less traffic once we cross Pont-Neuf—the bridge.”
“You know I don’t like bridges.”
“You’ll get over it.”
“See, 59th Street Bridge all over again.”
“William, is that a complaint?”
“Nope. Just making an observation.”
“Trust me. It’s a piece of cake,” she assured, turning onto a busy boulevard running parallel to the river. “You’re gonna loooove this next stop!” They turned onto another bike path, stopping at the entrance of a tunnel.
He stopped beside her, loving the flush to her cheeks and shining perspiration on her arms from the morning heat.
“Okay, so there’s a backstory to this tunnel.
Called les Tunnel des Tuileries, it is a super-historic landmark of French Revolution fame, but now it’s a half-mile cyclist slash pedestrian passageway.
It’s also the unofficial premier museum of organic, urban street art.
Some cyclists speed through. You can if you want to, but I wouldn’t recommend it.
You’ll miss everything. If you do, just don’t hit anyone, but when I tell you to stop, you have to stop, though. ”
“Why?”
“Because I have something special to show you.”
“What’s on the other side of the tunnel?”
“Sheesh. That’s not important—what’s important is the journey to the other side. You’re supposed to enjoy the vibrancy and creativity of hundreds of artists who left their voice and spirit on the concrete walls, and for that, we need music.”
“Fascinating.”
“Yes, it is, Spock!” She scrolled through her phone before placing it back on her handlebars, then tapped.
A song from their past tickled his ears. “ ‘Can’t Stop the Feeling’,” he said.
“I heard it the other day, and it brought me back in time.”
“If you’re thinking about Lizzy’s Amazing Chili Day, I remember it very well.”
“Yeah. Good times. Okay, are you ready?”
He would have liked to reminisce about it, but she was undeterred. “I’m ready.” He anticipated her taking off, but she didn’t. Instead, she dialed her bike speed down a notch to enjoy the beat, the lights, and the amazing graffiti.
In awe, he rode beside her flanked by expressive creations.
Stories unfolded, and color jumped off the walls at him.
The music pulsed, reverberating in the otherwise empty tunnel.
He felt like a kid wanting to make noises just to hear them echo against the stone.
Experiencing this beside Lizzy felt magical as she pointed out things she loved and laughed at others.
Sometimes, she’d stop, tilt her head, chuckle, and say something in French, then move on to the next imaginative piece.
The whole experience titillated his every sense.
The song ended, and another from their past played, and then she abruptly stopped near the exit, parking her bike. “I’m surprised you didn’t gun your bike to get to the end,” she remarked, getting off her bike and turning off the music.
“Are you kidding? That was incredible.”
“I knew you’d love it.”
“Why’d we stop here?” he asked.
Lizzy waved her arm. “What do you think of this one?”
“Water Lilies, your favorite. It’s very well executed. I really like how the artist painted a woman’s profile and replicated Monet’s quintessential piece in her flowing locks of hair, like the ripples of the pond.” He looked at her beaming smile. “Hey! That’s you!”
“Yup. That’s me. I painted this.” Lizzy bit her lip, then giggled. “Frankly, I’m shocked it’s still here.”
His heart swelled with pride. She was still the amazing Lizzy he remembered and so much more. Each day together, the onion peeled back, revealing another amazing layer to the woman he let slip away.
“Lizzy ... this is gorgeous. I’m blown away.”
“Thank you. Your opinion means more than you can imagine. Before everything went to shit, I was able to leave a little of myself here.” She sighed, then shrugged. “One day, when I get sick of the Manhattan rat race, I’ll come back for good.”
“Maybe I’ll come with you,” he bravely stated.
With a soft smile, she turned her head to look at him. “Well, I’d gladly play tour guide for you and Caroline when you come back. Who knows, maybe one of your kids will apply to Beaux Arts.”
“Right. Caroline. Kids.” His heart sank at the prospect, which it shouldn’t have, but there it was.