Joy

In Texas, everything is big. For the last three years, I lived in a sprawling-ass house. I believe that is actually the official definition. When I spotted it on Zillow, the listing said something like that—big-ass home for sale.

Fine, I kid.

But it was three bedrooms and a truckload of square feet. The yard played hostess to many a barbecue—yes, my yard was female—and the two-car garage could have held a pair of fat trucks. Most of the time, it housed my Prius.

The square footage tipped close to two thousand, and the cost for all that space was way more than manageable. Such is real estate life in the outskirts of Austin.

The human resources director at L’Artisan Cosmetique, the newly acquired French division of the cosmetics giant I work for, warned me of the size disparity between Texas homes and Parisian ones.

“I must make you aware that the flats we are sending over for your consideration are not terribly large,” Marisol, the human resources director, wrote tactfully in her email to me a few weeks ago. “I hope we do not disappoint you.”

I promptly assured her there was no way I would ever be disappointed, even with a cupboard-size flat in Paris. She could house me in a windowless studio, in a room missing a kitchen, in a closet even. Whatever size she found, it would possess the most important feature an abode could claim—just me.

After living in too close quarters for far too long, I didn’t need space so much as I needed not another person.

All that square footage hardly mattered when I shared it with someone who Svengali’d everyone around him. I learned what’s truly valuable in real estate is how many people you let have a key.

I button my blouse while gazing out the window of my hotel room overlooking Notre Dame, enjoying the view.

Enjoying, too, that I’m the only person who has a key to this room.

As I slide the last button in, my phone buzzes from my back pocket. There’s a note from Stephen, the apartment manager at Paris Perfect Places, confirming that tomorrow morning he’ll give me the key to my furnished rental flat, 2B in a cute little building in the 5th arrondissement.

By “little” I mean less than four hundred square feet, which in French real estate is evidently considered a “luminous” thirty-eight square meters. That’s precisely how the flat was advertised.

Except . . . something seems off as I reread the message. The address for the flat looks odd. I was pretty sure I rented something on the third floor, not the second.

I tap out a reply. You mean 3B?

Stephen’s response is swift. Yes, 2B!

Okay, something is clearly lost in translation, but I don’t think I’ll be able to sort it out right now. I fire off a typical I can’t wait response, translating it into French, but then I stop myself. What if “I can’t wait” in French turns out to mean “I want to rub my lady parts against you?”

Instead, I cycle back to what my seatmate on the plane taught me, and I use one of her replies then hit send.

My stomach growls. It’s nearly nine, but my jet lag woke me up at five, so my stomach is basically saying I hate you, bitch, feed me now. My appointment with Marisol and the translator isn’t for another hour, but since I’m wide awake, I decide to take off for a stroll toward Notre Dame. Because I can, and because no one’s here to stop me.

Stepping away from the window, I toss a light green scarf around my neck, wrapping it jauntily and pressing it to my nose. The smell of silk and cedar drifts into my nostrils. As I let the fabric fall, I catch the faint whiff of honeysuckle, too. That’s my favorite scent in my favorite perfume that I can finally wear again. It transports me instantly to a hammock under the sun and to long summer days as a teenager when I started to daydream of boys. I spritzed some on this morning when I dressed, since I brought my budding collection of little perfumes with me on the plane in my carry-on. All less than three ounces, of course.

I grab my shades and leave the hotel room, saying bonjour to a maid on my floor, the concierge in the lobby, and the doorman by the exit. I’m like Belle in the opening sequence of Beauty and the Beast. Bonjour, bonjour, bonjour.

This city will be everything I imagined. It will be more than wonderful. Paris is my great escape, and it begins today.

The doorman holds open the door, and I step outside. Cue the music video. Paris, here I come. Just try to wipe the grin from my face. It’s impossible because everything around me is so very French.

Like the looming sky-blue wooden door of the building next to the hotel. A knocker that looks like a cherub holds center court. What a funny little decoration for what appears to be an office building, and the very architecture suggests that the structure is a few centuries older than my home state.

I chuckle as I rub the bronze cherub’s hair, then I snap a cell phone shot. I send the picture to my sister, Allison.

On the other side of the hotel is a café. My heart skips a little faster because it’s everything the photos promised me. Small chairs with round wicker seats and tall, black backs spill onto the sidewalk. There’s barely an inch of room between each little circular red table, but no one cares. Parisians sip their coffees from teeny cups while reading the newspaper, or brooding, or talking to a companion. Men wear scarves around their necks and trim pants with fine leather shoes. The women dress in heels and . . . black. So much black. Skirts, jeans, sweaters, pants. The melody of voices that falls on my ears aren’t speaking big, bold, brash English. The foreign words are music; they’re the soundtrack to my new life.

I walk to the end of the block, staring at everything with hungry eyes. I devour the sights, the delicate iron latticework on the balconies, the green and blue street signs displaying words like rue and boulevard, the curling calligraphy on shop fronts, from the boulangerie to the boutique to the patisserie. Even a pharmacy across the streets looks fancy, with a sign in emerald-green glass. The streets curve and angle, and I try to inhale Paris all at once, as if I can capture the magic of it in one big blink of the eye. Just to be safe, though, so I don’t forget it, I take a few more pics, sending those to my sister as well.

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, mouth agape, when the River Seine comes into view.

I gasp.

I’m here. I’m really and truly here. And that winding ribbon of water is proof that I’m not in Texas anymore. I’m so far away from where I used to be, and I want to drink it all in, eat it all up, savor it.

“Oomph.” I stumble, my feet wobbly on the pavement.

A French woman mutters something at me under her breath since, oh yeah, I just whacked her arm due to my complete lack of attention.

“Sorry,” I say.

She lifts her chin and huffs.

“Well, excusez-moi.” Two can play at that game. But she’s clear across the street by now, so I smooth my hands over my blouse and keep on keeping on.

If that’s my only faux pas today, I’ll take it.

I stride to the corner and wait at the light, marveling at the familiar silhouette the famous church cuts against the sky. The sight tugs my mind back to the plans I made for a trip here more than a year ago. The flights were booked, the hotel secured. I’d mapped out a fun itinerary, with time to play ultimate tourist and time to explore the city’s nooks and secrets. That was what I most wanted to do. Uncover the city. Peel back its familiar layers and find the unexpected underneath.

Notre Dame was part of the trip, naturally. I like the sight of stained-glass windows and the smell of stone and old books.

But the trip was canceled.

Like so many other things.

The memory of the arguments that ensued, the drama, the debates, and then, finally, the unraveling chores—calling airlines, unbooking hotels—smacks me like a slap in the face, and I wish I could erase them from my mind. Erase my ex.

That’s one of the reasons this new job was so easy to say yes to. I wasn’t running away from a love that went sour, but I won’t deny that the prospect of all those miles—glorious miles, an ocean, and a continent between us—lubed up the path to “yes” quite easily. I can still recall the Friday afternoon at the lab when the email from L’Artisan landed in my inbox. I’d just finished working on some new formulations for a hair spray fragrance, and I’d tugged off my goggles and peeked at my phone.

Re: Inquiry

The subject line had intrigued me. Sure, it might very well have been an inquiry about trying a BRAND-NEW EXCITING SUPPLEMENT THAT REVERSES THE AGING PROCESS. Heck, I’m all for anything that actually does reverse aging. Whoever said one should grow old gracefully clearly never woke up one morning after her thirtieth birthday surprised to see—shudder—lines on her neck.

In any case, I clicked it open, stat, and found something better than the fountain of youth.

Would you be interested in relocating to Paris to oversee the fragrance lab at L’Artisan?

I nearly dropped the phone, and trust me, I have steady hands.

I replied so quickly I was sure I’d lose any negotiating power on account of overeagerness, but I was equally sure I didn’t care.

Hell to the yes.

Though I phrased my reply more professionally.

Two months later, I’m here, heading to my first meeting on French soil. Maybe I’m not Belle twirling with her basket in her blue aproned frock across the countryside. I’m me in jeans and boots, navigating my way through a major metropolis on the way to see Marisol. We planned to meet the translator L’Artisan hired for me—a lovely lady named Annalise who studied science at university, so she’s perfect for the job, Marisol had said.

As I wander along a side street, window shopping at all the boutiques, my phone rings.

“Hello,” I say cheerily when I answer, and Marisol asks me how I’m doing.

“Well,” I tell her, then ask the same of her.

In French.

Yay me.

She answers, then slides into English. “I hope your first day here is good so far. I wanted to let you know we must cancel the meeting with Annalise. She’s the translator we hired for you, but she’s no longer available.”

“Oh no.”

“It’s okay,” she says reassuringly. “She’s pregnant, and her doctor put her on bed rest due to some complications. She’s going to be fine, but she cannot do on-site work, naturally.”

“Of course,” I say, instantly understanding.

“Capstone also assures me they should be able to find someone quickly for you. We want your transition to be as seamless as possible. We can have your translator help you with anything you need to make this easy.”

“I appreciate all you do,” I tell her.

“We’re so thrilled to have you. I can still meet you for coffee, if you’d like? I’m nearby. Or I can send you to a fantastic bakery that’s not too far from where we were going to meet.”

“A bakery sounds perfect.” I don’t want to inconvenience her just for the sake of being social, especially since I want to start on the best foot possible.

She gives me the address, and I repeat it.

“I will update you soon. Now, go have a croissant, sit by the river, and enjoy your morning.”

L’Artisan has been treating me like a rock star. I suppose an advanced degree in organic chemistry will do that for you, as well as eight years’ experience as second-in-command at the fragrance chemistry lab at a major US cosmetics firm. That’s why L’Artisan convinced its parent company to relocate me to Paris. To introduce our efficient style to their niche products. But I need this position just as much as the company needs me. Back home, I’d stalled out in my job. I was second, not first, and there was no room for advancement. The head of the lab was going exactly nowhere. That made it even easier to say yes to the new job.

I end the call, tuck the phone into the small purse slung over my chest, and cross the street. I repeat the address that Marisol gave me out loud, but I’m not entirely sure where I am, other than heading closer to Notre Dame. I plug the address into my GPS and realize the bakery is a block away. Easy as pie.

Or eclair, I should say.

As I cross the street, I spot an older woman tugging a small, wheeled shopping basket behind her. A baguette pokes out the top of the basket, and I want to take a photo of it. So I do, raising my cell phone and clicking. Then I notice something at the corner of the street—a man locking up his bike. He wears a helmet. From my vantage point, perhaps fifty feet away, I can tell he’s handsome. Tall and trim, he wears dark, fitted slacks, and a light blue button-down shirt. The combination is somehow both casual and sharply dressed. He has that European look about him. Well, duh. I’m in freaking Europe. But what I really mean is—he looks like he belongs here. He has a certain ease about him. A comfort in his body and in his surroundings, in his style as a man who rides a bicycle in France. He owns this city, he knows it, and yet he doesn’t flaunt it. That’s what his easy stride and casual smile tell me, even from a distance.

When he takes off his helmet, I catch a glimpse of a chiseled jaw, and as he puts the helmet on the handlebars, I check out a rear end that would make angels weep.

I sigh happily, enjoying the Parisian view. Thank you very much, Europe, for sculpting some fine asses on your men. I’m just going to let myself savor the sight as he turns toward the door of the bakery.

Okay, savoring done. Time to savor some carbs.

I reach the bakery and open the door. The scent of fresh bread calls out to me, warm, doughy, and delicious.

I enter and inhale the lovely aromas, then take my spot in line and ogle the display case. There are apricot tarts, raspberry cakes, caramel eclairs, and bread, bread, bread. My mouth waters.

I stare at all the luscious food that’s so darn enticing I barely realize the man with the cute butt and fine jaw is standing in front of me.

When it’s his turn, he says hello to the woman at the register.

An involuntary shiver runs down my spine.

He said that in English.

And not just any English.

But British.