Joy

The line stretches for a hundred feet or more. It’s almost as if, well, it’s as if everyone has heard of this place.

But I’m not going to let a long line deter me.

Nope. I have sunglasses and no place to be today—except for a destination I wanted to visit on the trip that never was.

I grab a spot at the back of the line queued up to enter the north tower at the cathedral of Notre Dame. Literally everyone is taking photos. And I’m not exaggerating. This is one of those times when literally literally applies.

Except me.

I set up an Instagram account a year ago, thinking I’d fill it with everything I longed to see in this city on that trip.

It went unused, and my shutterbug ways remained limited to the mundane, to everyday items I didn’t want to forget. The filter in my furnace so I’d remember which brand to buy. A shot of my insurance card when I renewed my license. Proof of a deposit to show the bank. My camera roll is littered with daily reminders of tasks, and only tasks.

I believe Paris is where you go to reinvent yourself.

That’s why I’m here.

To start over. To embrace life, opportunity, and beauty. And since change is the name of the game, I decide to capture what inspires me. I gaze at the spires of the cathedral, its massive archways, the sheer enormity of the fairy-tale-esque cathedral. I look at the real thing, but then, since I don’t want to forget it, I snap a photograph.

As I stare at the intricate stone carvings in my camera app, I flash back to the Englishman from earlier today and imagine standing here with him, continuing our conversation. The possibility is so potent, I can see him. I can smell the faint scent of sweat and wood from his aftershave. I can hear the proper notes of his voice. If he were with me now, would we still be tossing increasingly ridiculous names at each other? Would we have moved on to other topics, like how many times he’s seen this cathedral, or the fact that I’ve never set foot in it before? Would he have said, “Go on without me. I’ll just wait for you here?”

My shoulders tighten as those far too familiar words echo in my mind.

Those were words Richard used, and I wince as I fall back in time to more than a year ago. I was invited to New York to speak at a conference. He wanted to tag along, he’d said. See the sights while I spoke on a panel and attended meetings. He’d visit the Empire State Building, see Central Park, stroll around the Village. But the day of my panel, he woke up and said he was in too much pain to go anywhere. He’d stay behind at the hotel. Don’t worry about me, he said. He texted me on my way to the conference. It’s not so bad. I’ll be fine. He texted me when I arrived at the Javits. Spoke too soon. Back is killing me. I told him to consider calling a doctor. He texted me minutes before my presentation. Can barely move now.

Please call a doctor, I texted before I went on stage.

It was the worst presentation I’d ever done. I was so worried about him.

As soon as it ended and I emerged from the cavern of the convention center, I called him. He didn’t answer. My heart hammered with worry, with fear that he’d truly taken some sort of turn for the worse. After a gnarly cab ride to the hotel and a mad dash through the lobby to the elevators, I found him sound asleep in the room.

When he awoke later that day, he said he’d turned the ringer off to take a nap, but he felt better and was ready for dinner.

We had sushi that night, and he asked how my talk went. I didn’t bother telling him that I sucked. He felt better, and that was all that mattered.

In fact, he’d said at dinner that night that he would feel well enough to go to Paris in a few months. But when the trip drew near, he claimed flying made his back worse. He’d need more pills before he could fly. So many more, he’d told me. So many that I should go on without him.

I didn’t.

I don’t know what Richard is doing now. He’s still in Austin, and I’m far, far away.

Right here, right now, I decide Archibald the Baguette Eater would have happily waited in line with me, cheerfully climbed the steps, and playfully confessed his name to me at the belfry. By the gargoyles, he’d have whispered it in my ear.

When I reach the main entrance, I don’t go inside the church. I march up the corkscrew stone staircase, my breath coming faster as I scale the more than four hundred fan-shaped steps. But I won’t let a few stairs stop me from seeing the gargoyles at the top of the towers.

I happen to like gargoyles.

They’re badass sentries, fiercely standing guard over the holiest of holy places. As light shines at the top of the stairs, my breath comes hard and fast, my thighs burning from the climb. When I reach the gallery on the north tower, I’m outside at the top of the most famous church in the world, and it’s spectacular. The city unfurls hundreds of feet below me, the river winding through Paris, the Eiffel Tower standing tall at the edge, the Louvre staking its famous claim by the water, the hills of Montmartre rising high.

It’s breathtaking.

I stare off in the distance, delighting in the view, when something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. I snap my gaze in its direction.

I’m looking at an elephant.

Holy smokes. There’s an elephant perched next to a gargoyle.

It’s a stone elephant, sitting on his big butt.

He’s not grotesque. He’s simply . . . an unexpected elephant.

And that’s exactly what I wanted to see. Something that surprised me. Something that makes me rethink my day, my opinion. I grab my phone and snap a shot of the elephant. This photo isn’t a reminder for my to-do list. This shot has meaning—it signifies the opposite of regret.

I can’t regret the cancelled vacation.

If I’d have come here with Richard, he wouldn’t have ventured up these steps, and I’d have felt bad going without him. That’s on me. I would have wanted to climb them, but I’d have chosen to stay on the ground with him.

Now, I feel sated, because of this elephant. It feels like my reward. Maybe even a reminder to shuck off the guilt that sometimes weighs on me. Let it go, and focus on the future.

Honestly, my only regret so far in my first twenty-four hours in Paris is that I didn’t snag Archibald’s phone number. That man was more delicious than the croissant, and it would have been fun to have a glass of wine or a cup of coffee with him.

I give myself a virtual smack. I don’t have time to let my mind wander to romantic interludes and flirty men. Extricating myself from a toxic relationship had felt like a Herculean feat at times, but I succeeded. Now I’m on the other side of manipulation, of lies, of the huge albatross of guilt that anchored me to Austin for far longer than it should have.

When I reach the ground, my phone buzzes. There’s a text from my sister.

Allison: I miss you so much it hurts, but you look like you’re having a blast! Keep the pictures coming and keep on enjoying life!!

I tell her I miss her with the depth of a black hole, but that I’m loving it here, too. I resolve to keep snapping photos—but to make sure they matter, that I’m both capturing life and living it well. I post the elephant as the fitting first image on my Instagram feed—#firstdayinparis #unexpectedsights #greatviews #lookaround.

When I close the app, I spot a message from the man with the rental company.

Stephen: Bonjour! The flat we arranged for you is all ready for tomorrow’s meeting. The studio is perfect.

I furrow my brow. I didn’t plunk down a security deposit on a studio. I opted for a one-bedroom on the third freaking floor.

Joy: I look forward to it. You mean the one-bedroom on the third floor?

His reply is instant.

Stephen: Yes, the studio on the second. It is beautiful.

I sigh. Call me crazy, but I think Stephen might be trying to yank me around. I want to call Marisol and ask her advice, but I don’t want to be a burden. I sort of wish the sweet little old lady from the plane had given me her business card, since she seemed the fairy godmother type, and I bet she’d know how to magic wand her way out of this mess for me.

But alas, I’ll need to handle this little situation on my own.

Back at the hotel room, I find an email from Marisol. The agency already has a new translator for me. His name is Griffin, and he studied biology in school so he knows the complicated technical lingo for the job. That’s key. Though it’s not necessary for him to understand how chemical reactions work, a scientific background and competence with terms that might flummox other linguists is an absolute necessity. Also, he’s quite good at idioms, both in French and English, Marisol writes. If I approve, the agency can let him know.

I tap my finger to my lip, a plan brewing. I wonder if he’s good at dealing with rental agents trying to screw an American over. I hope this new translator is like Archibald, ready to save a lady about to commit a faux pas.

I call Marisol and tell her Griffin sounds great. “Will you ask if he can meet me tomorrow morning?”

“Yes. He’s ready to start right away.”

I give her the address of the rental. “Nine thirty. I can’t wait to meet him.”