Page 46 of One Week in Paris
Antoine and my mom are way up ahead now, and we all scurry to catch up with them, but we’re careful to still keep a safe distance.
“We should try to fix her up with that guy,” Corrie says, looking up ahead. “He seems to like her.”
“That’s what we were just saying,” I say, a little too loudly. I’m getting way too excited about this. “I wonder if he’s married.”
“I’ll check,” Corrie says. “I’m on it. I’ll find out everything there is to know about him.”
“Okay, just don’t do it now,” I tell her. “They’re having a moment.”
“It’s so romantic,” Corrie waxes on. “Finding love in Paris… could anything be more perfect?”
“Excuse me while I go vomit in the flowers,” Oscar says.
“This is going to work,” Corrie says with conviction.
I want to believe her. I really want to believe her.
Next up, we’re visiting the Sorbonne, which honestly, I find a little boring. Luckily, Oscar entertains us with his made-up stories. When he spots a young tattooed girl, he starts off without hesitation. “My name is Sylvie, and I’m heading to my 20th century literature class. I love my professor, Gustave. He’s my favorite professor, and also my very sexy lover. He might be balding, married, and sixty years old but he’s so good in bed. I love it when he goes down on…”
Corrie and I burst out laughing as the story gets lewder and lewder. Antoine and my mom turn to see what’s so funny. They haven’t got a clue, and I don’t think they care much.
I’m parched by the time we hit a local café; a quaint little spot. There are thousands of them in Paris. They all have menus I don’t quite understand, written in French on cute chalkboards, pretty wicker bistro chairs, art on the walls, beautifully dressed patrons, and servers with heavy French accents.
This particular spot is book-themed, which I love. Hundreds of books line the wall, and the art on the walls is literature themed; scrolls, and typed pages of fiction. It’s tasteful and sophisticated. I enjoy a chai tea and ginger cookies while the owner, Michel, tells us all about the place, and gives us book recommendations. I jot them down on my iPhone. He and Antoine seem to be great friends, and Michel even invites us to his place, later that night, for wine and food.
I buy a French book I will never read. Oscar laughs at me, but I can’t resist the captivating cover. I’m such a book nerd.
Notre Dame is so majestic. There are a lot of tourists around, but that doesn’t deter from its beauty. When we venture inside, I signal Oscar to take off his baseball cap — he’s such a tourist. I’m quiet as a church mouse, not daring to say a single word in this sacred space, for fear I might slip and curse. The place is even more stunning inside; impossibly high arches, amazing architecture and striking stainless windows — a beautiful work of art.
“I think this is where Céline Dion got married,” Corrie whispers.
“No, she got married in Montréal, in Canada. There’s also a cathedral named Notre-Dame there. It’s a bit similar looking.”
“How do you know this shit?” she asks, a little too loudly.
I shoot her a wide-eyed look.
She slaps a hand to her mouth. “Sorry.”
Mom and Mr. Beautiful are still inseparable. He seems to have forgotten that there are seven other people in this tour. I wonder if the others mind that my mother has monopolized the attention of our tour guide.
Oscar is mesmerized and for once, he doesn’t have a snarky comment to offer. He reaches for his phone, and I tell him that pictures are not allowed.
He points in the direction of a tourist who is obliviously snapping pics.
“It’s frowned upon,” I explain.
He shrugs and tucks his phone away. I take his hand. He smiles at me, and for a fraction of a second, I have a vision of us in a church exactly like this, getting married. He’s wearing a beautiful black suit, like the one he wore at my mom’s engagement party, and I’m wearing a pretty white gown. I shake my head, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
It must be Paris. It’s doing things to me.
