On the Brink of Paris (2 page)

“It's Jah-nay,” she corrected. “We will learn to nibble at our cheese, to savor tiny portions of
le chocolat
, to slowly sip a glass of fine wine. This is how we keep ourselves trim and chic in Paris.”

Clearly Madame Chavotte had not read this book.

“We're not old enough to drink wine,” I said. Janet ignored my comment.

“We are visiting the home of the legendary representative of French culture, Edith Piaf! We must be worthy of the greatest singer in French history! We must learn to live
comme les Françaises
!” she shouted.

The sound caused Charlotte to drop her safety card abruptly.

“Janet!” she said sternly. “Weren't you listening to the announcement? Fasten your seat belt and return your seat to the upright position. Immediately!”

Unable to produce a suitable French phrase in response to this command, Janet disappeared, and I heard her seat belt clicking into place.

“It's Jah-nay,” I said wickedly.

Charlotte rolled her eyes, making me remember why I loved her.

The plane gave a little lurch and began to move in earnest. I was suddenly overwhelmed with anxiety and
an unexpected pang of homesickness. I thought of my parents, the neurotic but lovable Phyllis and Lenny Blennerhassett. They had taken me to the airport, my father concentrating on driving precisely at the speed limit while my mother issued a stream of instructions, including but not limited to: Stay with the group; make your bed every morning; don't spend all your pocket money on the first day; take pictures; stay with the group; dress neatly; don't eat any raw fish; avoid Parisian boys; and again, for good measure, stay with the group. I thought of Milo, my beloved beagle, who had tenderly licked my suitcase from top to bottom before I left. I thought of Jake, who was away on a rock-climbing trip that prevented the poignant, misty-eyed farewell scene I'd imagined. What if he met some Rock-climbing Girl while I was away? Someone lithe and muscular who was not afraid of heights? I clutched my stomach with both hands at the thought.

The plane began to taxi down the runway. I had a brief, vivid image of my mother jogging behind the plane, waving frenetically and shouting, “Remember to stay with the group!” I forgot about Jake meeting a Rock-climbing Girl and began to giggle uncontrollably. Bonnie looked at me with tranquil concern.

“Anxiety attack?” she asked.

“Early-onset insanity,” I replied, and Bonnie nodded as if she'd known all along.

Our plane, poised on the runway, began the sudden acceleration to takeoff. My mind filled with a cycling montage of images: brief trailers from every disaster movie I'd ever seen; grim-faced newscasters reporting an aviation tragedy; a physics professor explaining the scientific impossibility of 380 tons of steel's lifting into the air. The plane appeared to be vibrating like a food processor. The noise got really loud. I gripped my armrests as we went faster. I, Lily Blennerhassett, was freaking out.

To my right Charlotte was flipping through a copy of
Business Week
, looking as relaxed as a cruise ship passenger taking a little sun on the lido deck. To my left Bonnie was shuffling a deck of tarot cards, her expression Buddha-like. My two closest friends were not afraid to fly. Between the two of them they had knowledge spanning from the Federal Aviation Safety Guidelines to the Effects of Karma on Personal Well-being. If they weren't worried, I shouldn't be either.

So I closed my eyes and did a little work on my acceptance speech for the Pulitzer Prize in Fiction I'll win in ten or twenty years for my Great Parisian Novel. I had brought tears to my own eyes with my humble poignance when I felt a light, fluffy sensation in my stomach. The plane had stopped vibrating. Something had smoothed out.

“We're in the air,” Charlotte said, without looking up from her magazine.

Lily B., on the Brink of Paris.

Just as I was closing my journal, the plane lurched, and I uttered a long, high-pitched scream. Janet's face popped up in front of me.

“It's only
la turbulence
!”

“
La
shut up!” I cried with dignity.

On the Brink of Paris indeed.

T
here is nothing quite so damaging to one's personal dignity as being awakened by a flight attendant announcing the final approach to Paris, only to discover that a salad plate–size drool stain has appeared on one's shirt. I spent the time wading through Customs and Passport Control trying to hide my saliva display with my right hand. I must have looked like I was continuously reciting the Pledge of Allegiance to myself.

By the time we reached baggage collection, the stain had faded slightly but gone darker around the edges. It now looked like a topographical map of the island of Madagascar.

“Alors, mes enfants,”
Madame Chavotte was barking, “you are each responsible for your own bag,
oui
?”

The conveyor belt had begun to run, and a series of suitcases magically appeared, one at a time, moving briskly along like little soldiers. I noticed with dismay that almost every suitcase was an identical discreet black. Just like mine. Except for one, which was a brilliant rainbow of tie-dyed colors.

“There's mine, man,” Bonnie said, retrieving the neon psychedelic valise.

Bud and Chaz, the Football Guys, had also gotten their luggage, massive duffel bags with “New York Yankees” emblazoned on the side.

“Pay attention,” Charlotte told me, watching the luggage belt like a hawk. I was beginning to despair of ever identifying my bag, until I saw one coming toward me wrapped in a giant neon-pink ribbon with “LILY BLENNERHASSETT” inked onto it. Phyllis Blennerhassett had left her mark.

I grabbed the bag and turned to find the Mysterious Tim standing silently a few feet away. He was wearing a dark T-shirt and dark pants, and he was standing with his hands clasped in front of him. He looked like a mortician waiting for the funeral to start.

“Allons-y, allons-y!”
Madame Chavotte was calling. This was a woman who had no need for a bullhorn. Hikers in Switzerland could probably hear her. She was gesturing energetically with both arms in the direction we were
supposed to
allons-y
. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought she was performing some kind of mystical, aboriginal fertility dance.

Bonnie linked her arm through mine and gave me a dreamy smile.

“It's all starting, man,” she said. “Our adventure of the spirit. I think I had a past life in Paris. Hey, look! Charlotte's the Man!”

Charlotte had earned the respected designation of “the Man” by appropriating a baggage cart, which she was wheeling toward us in a frenzy of organizational competence.

“Let's go, people!” she commanded in a friendly way. “We don't want to get left behind.”

Phyllis Blennerhasset forfend we should become Separated from the Group.

Janet descended upon us with a squeal.

“Oooo, can I put my bag on the cart too? Can you believe we're really in Paree? Are you jet-lagged? Did you finish reading the book, Lily? My goodness, Bonnie, are those Birkenstocks on your feet? We've got to get you into some proper French
chaussures
.”

Charlotte prevented any further stream of Janet's partially Frenchified verbal spew by deftly grabbing her bag, tossing it on top of our cart, and marching purposefully toward the exit, where Madame Chavotte was still wildly
gesturing. Bonnie and I followed Charlotte out the door. I noticed Lewis was already standing in line at a bus stop. He was absorbed with his tiny portable computer, called a Sidekick. Lewis was rarely separated from the Internet.

“What's the haps, Lew?” I asked.

Lewis looked up, startled, like a kitten had just asked him for some spare change.

I pointed helpfully at the Sidekick, which was showing current news headlines.

“What's the news? What's going down?”

Lewis watched me for a moment, as if he wanted to make sure I wasn't making fun of him.

“They've discovered a new species of rodent in Laos,” he said finally.

“Excellent!” I proclaimed, trying to make it sound like I'd been praying for this very event for months. I opened my mouth to contribute my opinion on such a tremendous triumph of naturalism, but Lewis had already bent his head over the Sidekick again, fingers tapping away on the itty bitty keyboard.

Bonnie and Charlotte were standing a few feet away, pulling bags off the luggage cart. Janet was standing there too, apparently speaking as her lips were moving and her eyebrows were zooming up and down. No one seemed to be listening to her, but Janet didn't appear to notice.

I heard the now-familiar sound of counting to the
number eight in French, issued in Madame Chavotte's thundering voice, making certain we were all present and accounted for.

When you're someplace foreign, it's nice to have someone in charge who knows things like what bus you're supposed to get on, even if that person is built like a line-backer and has only one eyebrow. A bus had stopped, and Madame Chavotte was interrogating the driver in lightning-speed French. Moments later the driver came down to the sidewalk, opened a compartment, and began to toss our bags inside.

“Allons!”
cried Madame Chavotte. “Zis is our bus. Everyone get on it, pliz.”

Interesting. Madame Chavotte didn't say “pliz” too often in America. Or “sank you,” for that matter.

Bonnie, Charlotte, and I filed onto the bus together. We headed straight for the back row. Up front, I could see, the Mysterious Tim had slipped into a row by himself. When Bud and Chaz chose their seats, they both had to stoop to avoid smacking their jar-shaped heads on the luggage rack. Janet began to bounce toward our row enthusiastically but devised another plan at the last minute and plopped herself next to Madame Chavotte. I didn't see Lewis, but I could hear the telltale tap-tap-tapping that divulged his Internetaholic presence. Within minutes we were on something resembling
a highway, which Janet shouted back to us was
la grand-route
.

We reached Paris in about forty minutes. I am ashamed to say I dozed off for most of the ride and awoke to find my Madagascar-shaped drool stain now more closely resembling the continent of Greenland. Charlotte was examining the information pack we'd each been mailed when we signed up for the trip. Milo, the beagle, had eaten most of mine, and I had no recollection of what I'd done with the rest of it. I wouldn't have read it anyway. Information packs were for Simple Tourists. Dear Readers, I want to state for the record that I, Lily Blennerhassett, am not now (nor ever will be) a Simple Tourist. I will not be among those of my peers who will purchase an Eiffel Tower snow globe or a beret with “I Love Paris” embroidered on the top. I will not be spending my euros acquiring shirts that say, “My friend went to Paris and all she got me was this lousy T-shirt.” No Notre Dame key chains will make their way into my possession. You see, unlike my classmates, who have the luxury of being Simple Tourists, I am a Writer. A Writer who has frittered away the fourteen years since my birth producing Nothing of Lasting Literary Value. A Writer on the Brink of penning her First Masterpiece.

Charlotte would tell me everything I needed to know about the information pack, and I could keep my mind
free for finding gems and nuggets for my Mental Pool. I leaned over her shoulder to refresh my memory on the facts of our stay. We were staying someplace called the Ville Ecole Internationale in the Parisian district called Le Marais. The bus was lumbering down a narrow street, and all around me were elegant beige buildings. With their grand arches and columns, they reminded me of wedding cakes. Old, sophisticated, beige wedding cakes. Occasionally a tan or yellow one. It was like…it was like…

“PARIS!” shouted Janet gleefully from the front of the bus. She must be as jet-lagged as the rest of us, forgetting to pronounce the name of the city like she usually did, in the French way, Paree.

Meanwhile, the bus had stopped. Which meant:

• a. We were out of gas.
  
• b. We had been stopped by
  les bandits
  intent on robbing each of us of our most valued possessions.
  
• c. The bus driver had been beamed out of his seat and onto a spaceship that had been hovering, unnoticed, above our bus since we left the airport.
  
• d. We had arrived at the Ville Ecole Internationale.
  

Turned out to be “d.”

The VEI was sandwiched between two palatial-looking structures fit for royalty. The VEI itself, however, looked suspiciously like a tan version of my suitcase, without the neon-pink ribbon around it. This was disappointing. This was a
new
building. It was concrete, unadorned, unexceptional. How would I find any gems and nuggets for my Mental Pool staying in a building that looked like a plain paper bag?

“Righteous,” said Bonnie, who had a deep appreciation for the humble and understated.

Charlotte had her nose buried in the information packet and did not comment. Without looking up, she stepped sideways to avoid a ball Chaz had thrown to Bud.

“Shouldn't there be a bellboy or something? Don't they have those here?” Janet asked, squinting up at the building as the bus driver hurled our suitcases onto the sidewalk with the force of a world-class wrestler.

“Now, now, Janet,” I said severely. “We are in Paree. Do you dare question
les Français
?” Because it was one thing for me to question our accommodations. But another thing for Janet to do it.

“It's Jah-nay,” she replied, trying not to scowl.

Madame Chavotte was making a clucking noise, trying to gather us around her. The noise she was making seemed more likely to attract eight chickens than eight almost-
ninth graders. Bud and Chaz were still playing catch, but Tim had materialized beside Madame Chavotte silently, like Death wielding his scythe. Lewis ambled over without looking up from his Sidekick. Charlotte took my arm and led me with determination to the group. Sometimes having Charlotte as my best friend is like having a bodyguard/personal manager with an exceptionally high IQ.

“Ecoutez, mes enfants,”
Madame Chavotte said in her booming voice. It was physically impossible NOT to
écoutez
to Madame Chavotte when she spoke this loudly. My eardrums were convulsing with the trauma.

“Eet ees now”—and she briefly checked her watch—“twelve o'clock, Paree time. For you zees ees six in ze morning, New York time. We must dispense wiz ze jet lag
immédiatement
because starting tomorrow, our schedule ees very beezee. Ze concierge will direct boys to boys' dormitory and girls to girls' dormitory, and you will pliz nap or rest quietly until dinner.”

Dormitory?

DORMITORY?

“Dormitory?” I asked. “I need to be able to describe the life of quiet elegance, exquisite simplicity, and unquestionably good taste. How am I going to find that in a dormitory?”

But Madame Chavotte was already sweeping through
the door, waving at us to follow.

I turned pleadingly to Charlotte as we walked inside.

“Dormitory?”

Charlotte shrugged.

“Lily, this isn't a Lizzie McGuire movie; it's real life. We're fourteen. We don't
get
four-star accommodations.”

“It's cool,” said Bonnie, staring up at the giant tan suitcase with her pale-blue eyes. “It's like a youth hostel, man.”

A youth hostile? That sounded to me like an angry, mean place to be avoided.

The lobby, if that's what you called it (Janet was temporarily without a Francophile contribution), was dark, especially after we'd been standing in the bright August sun. I could see a small man scurrying around, discharging rapid bursts of French in Madame Chavotte's direction. Our luggage had already been whisked away by a slightly larger man.

“Pour les filles, deuxième étage; pour les garçons, troisième étage,”
the concierge was saying.

I was momentarily thunderstruck. I HAD UNDERSTOOD HIM!

“Girls, second floor; boys, third floor!” I shrieked excitedly, as if I'd just answered the Daily Double on
Jeopardy
. “Girls, second floor; boys, third floor!”

Our group was trooping dutifully up the staircase. No
one was responding with the astonishment I had expected following my remarkable translation of the concierge's directions. But it didn't matter. I was just grateful we were on the second floor. That meant only one flight of stairs. Because to be brutally honest (which is what writers must be), I could possibly stand to get in a little better shape. I could, perhaps, benefit from some close personal interaction with a treadmill. You get my drift.

So imagine my horror when we reached the first landing and the concierge KEPT GOING.

“
Deuxième étage
for the girls,
deuxième étage
!” I said, pointing frantically.

“Oui, mademoiselle, deuxième étage,”
the concierge agreed cheerfully, trudging up the next flight of stairs.

“He's taking” (breath) “us past” (breath) “our floor” (breath), I gasped.

Through half-closed eyes, I saw something whiz through the air. It was Janet's ponytail as she whirled around to face me.

“In France the street level is called the
rez-de-chaussée
,” she said primly. “The next level up is the
premier étage
. And so on.”

Which makes
deuxième
the THIRD floor! Ye gads!

Ahead, Bud and Chaz were tripping up the stairs lightly while carrying on a nonstop conversation about the start of football season, in which neither one paused
to listen to the other. Even Lewis, who as a Computer Geek should by all rights have the muscular and aerobic capacity of an earthworm, had enough surplus energy to enable him to continue web surfing while stair climbing.

Perhaps it was not too late for me to catch the bus back to the airport.

“Voilà! Deuxième étage!”
said the concierge.