Cecilia - Three #2
It was like walking straight into another time. The air shifted — cooler, stiller, impossibly grand — and everything around us glittered with gold and history. My breath caught somewhere behind my ribs.
The ceiling alone was enough to stop us.
Arched and endless, it rose above us like a sky reimagined, painted in scenes I couldn’t even begin to interpret, cherubs, warriors, horses in flight, women in flowing robes with fire in their eyes.
Everything bathed in soft gold, pink marble, warm light pouring in from towering windows like the room was blessed.
The walls were lined with red velvet chairs and ropes we didn’t dare step past. On the left, another mirror stretched along the wall, catching the whole expanse in its reflection.
We looked like children in comparison, two girls in average outfits, with frizzy hair and flushed cheeks, necks craned, stunned into silence.
“I feel like we shouldn’t even be allowed in here,” I whispered, almost afraid my voice would echo.
Siena didn’t answer. She was turning in slow circles, eyes wide, mouth parted. When she finally spoke, it was a whisper too.
“How did people even make this? Like—actually make this?”
I didn’t know. The scale of it. The care. The beauty. The fact that someone once imagined this ceiling in their head and then somehow brought it into the world brushstroke by brushstroke, stone by stone. It was impossible. And yet, here we were.
It wasn’t just beautiful. It was breathtaking. Not in the way people toss around when describing sunsets or expensive jewellery, but in a way that made me forget the air in my lungs.
We snapped a few photos and once we had ogled enough at the masterpiece that was the building, we stepped back out into the sunlight and for a moment, everything felt too hot and too loud.
Siena turned to me, sunglasses slipping slightly down her nose, and said, “I think we need to buy dresses.”
“Obviously.”
We found a boutique tucked between two shuttered shops, its front window filled with linen and lace, summer dresses in soft pastels, and sandals that looked like they’d disintegrate on cobblestones but were undeniably pretty.
Inside, it smelt like citrus and something floral I couldn’t name. There was no one else there — just a sleepy-looking girl behind the counter and racks of cotton and chiffon swaying gently beneath an overhead fan.
Siena found something green that hugged her in all the right places. I picked a dress that tied at the back and made me feel, unexpectedly, like someone who belonged in a place like this — not just visiting it.
“I can’t wait to fit this into my backpack,” I said sarcastically once we got outside the shop.
Siena laughed, “We may now have some chic French dresses, but we’re still going to resemble snails.”
We stopped for an iced coffee after, watching people go by like extras in a film we hadn’t been cast in. There was music drifting from somewhere nearby, a woman walking a dog in heels, a man carrying a bouquet of sunflowers. Everything looked beautiful. Effortless.
We didn’t do much else that afternoon. Bought snacks for the train. Found a shady spot to read. Ate strawberries out of a paper bag that leaked juice down our hands. Let ourselves slow down and just bathe in the glorious sunshine .
And then, just like that, it was time to leave again.
Our next stop on the itinerary was Montpellier and it greeted us with heat.
Not the dry, crackling kind from the countryside, but a heavier warmth that clung to your skin and made every movement feel just a little bit slower.
The kind of warmth that pressed gently behind your eyes and whispered you wouldn’t be doing much today.
We took the tram from the station, shoulders knocking slightly as it jolted around each bend.
My backpack had become sentient by this point, a hulking, uncooperative creature trying to take down everyone around me.
I caught Siena’s eye as I nearly took out a pram during a sharp turn, and she burst out laughing so hard she nearly fell over.
“We are a public menace,” she said.
“I’m going to throw mine into the sea.”
We got off near the old quarter and followed the buzz of the city into the wide square.
It opened suddenly, like someone had pulled back a curtain.
Pale buildings with white shutters framed the space, the sky above so blue it looked painted.
In the centre, scattered tables spilled out from cafés, and people lounged with glasses of wine, limbs stretched, conversations lazy.
It felt like the entire city had exhaled.
We picked a table near the edge, shaded slightly by a tangle of leafy vines, and dropped into our seats like we’d just walked across a desert. I peeled my backpack straps off my shoulders and leaned back with a sigh that felt like it came from somewhere deep .
A man sat across the square, perched on a stool with a battered guitar resting on his knee.
He wore a wide hat and sunglasses, his fingers slow and sure on the strings.
His music curled through the air like smoke.
Easy, wordless, old. The kind of sound that made you want to cry for reasons you didn’t fully understand.
“I think I’ve died,” Siena said, closing her eyes. “This is heaven.”
The waiter appeared, looking entirely too put together for someone working in this heat. He smiled, handed us menus, and called us mesdemoiselles in a way that felt effortless and warm.
We ordered two beers, clinked them together when they arrived, and sat in comfortable silence for a while. Just watching and soaking it all in.
Then came the Nicoise salad. Eggs still warm, anchovies tangy, lettuce dressed just enough. It was exactly what I was craving in this heat.
The sun hit Siena’s hair just right, catching all the copper and gold in it.
Her sunglasses slid halfway down her nose again, and she didn’t bother fixing them.
She was too busy pulling chunks of baguette from the basket and dipping them in olive oil like it was the most important task she’d ever had.
I didn’t know the last time I had felt this content.
I let the warmth reach into every part of me. The food. The music. The quiet hum of people talking around us. This scene felt like a movie or something romantic that you read about, but it was all real and together we were living it .
“I know I’ve said this nearly every day, but I am so glad we did this,” I said and sent Siena a smile over my shoulder.
“I’d hug you right now if we both weren't so sweaty,” she smiled. “But I’m so glad we did this too,” she replied and clinked my glass with hers.
By early evening, the square had cooled a little.
The shadows stretched longer. The man with the guitar had packed up and gone, leaving behind the echo of his music in my chest. We sat for a while longer, letting our beers settle, until Siena leaned over and said, very seriously, “I need cheese. Immediately.”
The place she’d found was a little tucked-away wine bar, recommended by someone she’d chatted to at the bakery that morning.
Apparently, you could pour your own wine from chilled dispensers along the walls and sample as much as you liked.
It sounded like a disaster waiting to happen. Naturally, we went immediately.
Inside, it was dim and cool, with low lighting and shelves lined with bottles. The air smelled like cork and oak and something slightly nutty. We were handed prepaid cards and shown how to tap them at each dispenser to fill our glasses. It was dangerously easy.
Siena grinned like she’d just hacked the system. “We’re going to become experts. Sommeliers, even.”
“Can you spell sommelier?”
“Absolutely not.”
We started with rosé. Then white. Then another white, a bit fruitier. A very dry red after that, which made Siena pull a face like she’d swallowed regret .
We stood in front of the fridge for a good three minutes trying to decide between two bottles before remembering we didn’t actually need to commit to either. That was the whole point. Freedom. Sips. Adventure in the form of fermented grapes.
We nibbled on charcuterie and soft cheese between glasses.
Little slivers of meat and wedges of brie that melted the moment they touched our tongues.
I lost count of how many times we topped up our glasses.
I stopped caring about which region each wine came from.
Siena pretended to take tasting notes in the notes app on her phone.
All she wrote was: "white = happy, red = betrayal. "
We found a corner table by the window. It was slightly uneven, and we had to wedge a coaster under one leg, but the view of the street outside was all warm lamplight and low chatter. I caught Siena watching people pass, her chin resting on her hand, a soft smile tugging at her mouth.
“You okay?” I asked.
She nodded. “I feel so good. Is that allowed?”
“Absolutely.”
And I did too. I felt good in a way I hadn’t expected.
By the time we left the wine bar, the city had shifted. It wasn’t loud exactly, but it was humming in that Friday-night way. Tables filled. Glasses clinked. Music drifted from somewhere nearby, layered with bursts of laughter and the low rumble of scooters passing by.
We walked slowly, still a little buzzed, still full of cheese and whatever else we’d grazed our way through. We’d dropped our bags at the apartment earlier — a third- floor walk-up with creaky steps and one pillow each, but blessedly better than Toulouse. The fan even worked.
That night, we lay on top of the covers, windows cracked open to the street below, the sounds of Montpellier still folding around us.
I didn’t fall asleep thinking about anything important.
Just Siena's terrible wine notes and the way the waiter had winked at us as we left.
My legs ached. My feet were probably furious. But I felt okay.
The next morning, I woke up sticky and slightly dehydrated, hair flattened on one side like I’d slept in a wind tunnel. Siena looked worse. She groaned when I nudged her, dragging a pillow over her face and muttering something about wine being the devil’s work.
We packed up quickly. Both of us had gotten weirdly good at the roll-tuck-squash method of fitting our lives into a single backpack.
The room was hot, the air thick with the last bit of sleep.
Neither of us talked much until we were halfway to the station, stopping briefly to grab orange juice, two slightly squashed pastries, and a pack of salted crisps we justified as breakfast.
On the train, Siena curled up by the window, headphones in, mouth slack in that unbothered way only truly tired people could manage. I stared out at the landscape as it slipped by. The greens and yellows of it. The way everything blurred at the edges.
Nice was next and both of us couldn’t wait.
We hadn’t planned much other than a few lunches, yet neither of us could wait to be somewhere new.