On the Brink of Paris (3 page)

“
Allez,
girls, come wiz me. Monsieur Bellhomme will show ze boys upstairs.”

Never had the voice of Madame Chavotte sounded more appealing. I staggered through the door, gasping and clutching at my chest theatrically.

“Don't bury yourself in the part,” Charlotte remarked.

Madame Chavotte led us to a large room at the end of the hall. Shortly after ordering us to unpack before napping, she disappeared. I have no idea where she went. It occurred to me she might have stepped through a wardrobe and ended up in a French version of Narnia.

Our dormitory looked like the one in Miss Clavel's school, proving once again that everything you need to know about Paris can be found in the Madeline books. There were eight beds, in two rows of four. Next to each bed was a little wardrobe. I took the bed closest to the door, not because I felt it had any particular advantage over the others, but because it required the fewest steps to
reach. Bonnie and Charlotte took the next two beds. Janet, for some reason probably related to French customs, took a bed in the facing row, off in the corner.

I plunged facedown on the bed and lay still, practicing what one of my favorite writers calls prone yoga. I could hear Charlotte unpacking with ruthless efficiency, hanging and folding clothes with military precision.

“You should unpack right now,” Charlotte said, “so the wrinkles come out of your clothes. You should always unpack first thing when arriving in a new place. It's one of those rules for how to be a more efficient person.”

Without removing my face from where it was pressed into the pillow, I made a small noise that sounded like a lamb bleating through many layers of gauze wrapping.

“And what about your journal? If you don't write things while they're fresh in your mind, you may forget important details,” Charlotte continued.

Ye gads! She was right. I had an OFFICIAL DUTY to perform. Madame Chavotte wanted me to publish my Parisian journal in our school paper, in installments, for the edification and amusement of the unlucky masses who had not accompanied us. For this I would receive a coveted Extra Credit for French class. My Parisian journal would be read only by the school, but it would pave the way for my Great Parisian Novel, which would naturally be read by the World.

I lifted my head, which now felt more like a bowling ball, and struggled to a sitting position.

Must. Write. Now.

Three hours later I was half dead from sleep. The little nap did nothing to improve my jet lag; in fact, it seemed to have made it worse. I looked like I had a leech stuck under each eye. Our whole group was zonked. We'd shuffled into the dining hall like a collection of extras from
Dawn of the Dead
.

The dining room was arranged in picnic-table style. I slid onto a bench between Bonnie and Charlotte and discreetly checked my shirt for drool. Janet sat down across
the table from me, practically quivering with excitement. Let her not speak, O Powers That Be. PLEASE. Let her not speak.

“Bon appétit, girls!”
Janet sang.

“Technically, one doesn't say that until the food has been served and eating is about to commence,” said Charlotte.

“What do you think they'll be feeding us to inaugurate our European palates?” Janet asked.
“Steak au poivre
?
Escargots
?
Pommes de terre
?
Terrine de—de…”

We were spared any more of Janet's musings by the arrival of Madame Chavotte, pushing a wheeled trolley full of plates.

“Voilà! Voici!”
she said, handing us each a steaming plate. “Take.”

In spite of the Supreme Irritation Known as Janet and Her Enthusiasm, I was eager to see what we were having. The entire world has heard tales of the magical French cuisine. These would be the first items for my Mental Pool! I could have a sumptuous dining scene in my novel, with realistic descriptions of every course. I looked expectantly at my plate.

It was franks and beans.

“Hey. HEY! What IS this?” I demanded.

“Franks and beans,” said Charlotte.

“That was a RHETORICAL question,” I spluttered.
“Are you going to eat that?”

Charlotte had already taken a bite of her frank, wordlessly answering my question.

“Bonnie, are you?” I asked. And I glanced over at her plate. Then I went white with rage. (Okay, I didn't go white with rage, but it sounds good, doesn't it? One day I plan to go white with rage.) What I actually did was make a little envious, frustrated exclamatory sound. Kind of like “whahuh?!”

Because Bonnie didn't have franks and beans on her plate. She had what very closely resembled steamed vegetables, sliced hard-boiled egg, soybeans, and rice. She had, in other words, something that looked…good. Not necessarily French, but possibly novelworthy. And definitely tasty.

“But…,” I said.

“I'm a vegetarian, dude, remember?” Bonnie said. “So they don't serve me the same thing they serve you.”

“There was a box to check on the form that came in the information packet, Lily,” said Charlotte. She had a tiny sliver of baked bean stuck on her lower lip. I was feeling mean, so I didn't tell her.

“Well, I've been giving it a lot of THOUGHT,” I exclaimed, “and I have decided to become a vegetarian. As of right now.”

“Bud, that's EXCELLENT,” said Bonnie, beaming.

“So I will accept my vegetarian meal now,” I said primly.

“It doesn't work that way,” Charlotte said. “You have to tell them when you register. You can't change without rendering due notice.”

The piece of bean was still stuck to her lip.

I sighed and picked up my fork.

“I am currently, but perhaps temporarily, once again a meat-atarian,” I said. I took a bite of my dinner. “But I do think they MIGHT have been a little more…
French
with the meal.”

“I agree!” exclaimed Janet.

“Oh, come on,” said Charlotte cheerfully. “When you get right down to it, there's really nothing more French than a frank.”

I wasn't in the mood for Charlotte's sophisticated, cultural wordplay.

But between you and me, Dear Readers, it was the best frank I'd ever tasted.

M
adame Chavotte woke us at seven thirty the next morning, making me feel like one of those army trainees awakening in the barracks at dawn to a barrage of commands from a towering military figure. We had to make our beds, but no one was ordered to do push-ups or clean the toilets with a toothbrush.

Any hopes for a traditional French breakfast were shattered with the arrival of a collection of cereal boxes and pitchers of milk. There was also a stack of sliced bread piled precariously next to an industrial-size toaster. But the light at the end of the tunnel was the discovery of the only valid item of European cuisine to be found within fifty feet of the VEI—a jar of Nutella. Nutella: bliss in a thirteen-ounce spreadable form. Nutella: my
current
raison d'être.
Quite simply, it's chocolate hazelnut paste. You spread it on bread and eat it. This is essentially like having a piping-hot piece of toast with chocolate frosting smeared on top. And this is not even considered nutritionally warped behavior in Paris; in fact, it is as normal as tucking into a bowl of granola and milk. Chocolate paste on toast. Now
there's
something to inspire a writer.

I love Paris!
J'aime Nutella!

 

Madame Chavotte wanted to start our first morning in Paris with Something Big, leading us with a purposeful stroll over the Pont Neuf to Notre Dame Cathedral. Bud and Chaz were high-fiving each other and whooping the whole way, because apparently there is a football team called Notre Dame, and they thought we were going to see a game.

When we arrived, we gathered on the square in front of the cathedral, where the massive towers loomed over us. Lewis and the Mysterious Tim stood lurking silently in their black T-shirts, looking like a team of junior Secret Service agents. At this point even Bud's and Chaz's teeny brains figured out we were definitely
not
at a sports arena. Bud (or it might have been Chaz) then had a shining intellectual moment when, recovering from his disappointment, he pointed a beefy finger at the cathedral and
said, “Hey! It's that church from the Disney movie!”

Charlotte shook her head in disgust.

“This cathedral has been standing for seven hundred years and is considered the crowning Gothic architectural masterpiece of the world,” she said. “And Bud only knows it from the cartoon version of
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
.”

“Disgraceful!” I agreed. It was the sort of thing only a Very Simple Tourist would have known: a Disney fact.

“LISTEN, PLIZ!” Madame Chavotte was calling. She might be the only human being in the world who sounded like she was using a megaphone when she wasn't. Really, how could a person NOT listen?

“You 'ave read ze information sheet on ze 'istory of ze cassedral, which also 'as a map on ze uzzer side. So I sink is good for you to explore ze cassedral
seuls
. Okay? Good?
Seuls.
”

Good soul? Was there some sort of spiritual requirement to get in? Was my soul good? If it wasn't, would I be sent down a hatch like Veruca Salt in
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
? I envisioned standing on a platform at the cathedral's entrance, and a sign lighting up, blinking on and off “BAD SOUL.” Criminy!

“Can they do that?” I whispered anxiously to Charlotte.

“Do what?” she asked.

“Evaluate our souls?”

Charlotte stared at me with her eyebrows all squinched together.

“Lily, what are you talking about?”

I pulled her away from the group and whispered, “Madame Chavotte said that to go into the cathedral, we needed good soul!”

Charlotte covered her face with her hands. I could hear a muffled sigh of frustration.

“Didn't you study any French vocabulary before this trip?” she asked through her hands.

“Uh, some,” I said.
“Oui.”

I
had
studied my vocabulary words. It's just that my brain retained only words that seemed important to me, personally. Like
écrivain.
After all, what could be more important than the French word for “writer”?

“She said she thought it would be good
seuls
, Lily.
Seuls.
Alone. She thinks it would be fun for us to explore the cathedral on our own.”

YAY! My soul was not going to be evaluated!

“Oh, right,” I said casually. “
Seuls.
Right. It's the jet lag.”

Charlotte was polite enough not to respond to that lie.

“This is excellent, bros,” Bonnie said. She had been staring, transfixed, at the cathedral since we'd arrived. This was the first time she'd spoken. “There are going to be some massively good vibrations in there. I'm going to go find a quiet spot and attune my consciousness.” She
began walking toward the cathedral. Actually, she looked more like a disembodied spirit, gliding over the paving stones, all delicate and mystical.

My consciousness could probably use a tune-up too, but I didn't really know how to go about doing that. Not only could I not locate the information sheet Madame Chavotte had given us, but I hadn't bothered to read it before I lost it. Rats. This meant I didn't have the map either.

“Do you have the map?” I asked Charlotte, giving her a wide and innocent smile.

Charlotte looked stern.

“Where's your—Oh, never mind. We'll explore the cathedral
seules
together.”

I hugged her and saw a pleased twinkle behind her stern expression.

“But you have
got
to get more organized,” Charlotte said as we walked toward the cathedral with our arms linked.

“I will,” I said.

And we went inside.

As a writer I am ashamed, ASHAMED, to admit it, but it is difficult to find the words to describe what I felt when I stepped into Notre Dame Cathedral. It was like suddenly finding oneself at the bottom of a spectacular ocean. There was a sense of hugeness. The vaulted ceiling
was so high, it seemed like an optical illusion. The altar at the far end of the cathedral looked miles away. Everything was so big: the pillars, the stained glass windows.

I felt positively puny.

It was also strangely quiet. There were noises—I could hear other people and stuff—but everything was sort of muffled. Even the air felt quiet, and…
smoother
. Maybe it was those massively good vibrations Bonnie had mentioned.

We don't have much Really Old Stuff in the U.S. Our ancient historical sites are more of the Laura Ingalls Wilder variety. But the Little House on the Prairie was an architectural infant in diapers compared to this. Some person—a girl my age, even—might have stood on this EXACT spot seven hundred years ago. Looking at the EXACT same thing I was looking at now. My mind sagged trying to get around the idea.

Charlotte tugged my arm, and I stifled a shriek of alarm.

“Come on,” she whispered. “I want to see the Le Brun paintings and the rose windows.”

I followed Charlotte as we strolled past Lewis, who was fiddling with his Sidekick while standing next to a statue of someone very pure and holy-looking. Charlotte led me by the paintings down to an enormous circle of stained glass. She occasionally whispered to me (everyone seemed to speak in hushed tones here), but I had trouble focusing
on anything she was saying. We must have wandered for an hour, Charlotte pointing out statues and carved screens. I was actually beginning to regret not reading the information sheet as the Simple Tourists had. Because I didn't know what anything was, and now that I was here, I couldn't retain the information Charlotte was giving me. I was hypnotized by the stone, by the greatness, by the age. By Bonnie's massively good vibrations.

Plus, I was really jet-lagged.

Still, I took something away with me when we left Notre Dame. It wasn't a specific gem or nugget I could identify for my Mental Pool. I just felt…refreshed. Maybe my consciousness had been tuned up without my even trying.

 

On the way back to the VEI, Madame Chavotte had us stop in the Place des Vosges, a square that surrounded a tree-lined garden with a fountain in the middle. She had indicated through a series of barks and hand gestures that we should stretch our legs, window-shop at the street-level boutiques, or park it on a bench for the next hour. Charlotte paced the entire perimeter of the square, looking for a news shop that sold
The Economist
. Bonnie found a quiet, shady spot on the grass and was sitting in the lotus position. She looked like Siddhartha sitting under a Bodhi tree awaiting enlightenment.

I parked it on a bench beside Lewis, who had also parked it on a bench. Curious, I peered at him out of the corner of my eye. He had flipped open his Sidekick. Again.

“I don't get it,” I said.

“Don't get what?” Lewis asked, fingers already tapping at buttons.

“All this technology you're so hooked on. You're in PARIS! Why miss it all while you bury your nose in the computer screen?”

Lewis looked at me blankly. I tried again.

“My parents took me to New York City for a weekend last summer,” I said. “They had this whole museum agenda, part of their Frequent Outings Program to torture and traumatize me, but that's another story. Anyway, we kept seeing these double-decker tour buses go by, like down Fifth Avenue, and all the people on the top deck were filming with their video cameras. They're riding right by Rockefeller Center and St. Patrick's Cathedral and all these tourist landmarks, and most of them never took their eyes out of the viewfinders. It's like they were so intent on videotaping every last second of their vacation, they were essentially experiencing the whole trip through a lens. Might just as well have stayed home and watched a TV show about New York, don't you think?”

Lewis waited a moment, to make sure I was finished talking.

“Is that what you think I'm doing?” he asked.

“You web surf, like, twenty-four/seven.”

“No, I don't. I text message every once in a while and post updates on my blog—”

“Blog?” I asked. “You have a blog?”

“—and there are some sites I check every day. But at breakfast, for instance, I was looking at this.”

Lewis turned the Sidekick to face me. On the screen was a series of drawings of the Place des Vosges, from the time of its construction in the seventeeth century to the present day.

“Where did you find that?” I asked.

“I Googled it,” Lewis said. “It shows how the Place des Vosges is completely symmetrical. Nine houses on each side. The square could be bisected from any angle and still produce twin images, the perfection of bilateral symmetry. Humans are attracted to bilateral symmetry. That's a biological fact.”

I absorbed this information with my mouth hanging open.

“You see,” Lewis continued, “technology doesn't have to be a mindless escape, Lily. It can enhance an experience. You're just prejudiced because you're a writer, and writers consider the Internet beneath them.”

I was thrilled both that Lewis had (accurately) referred to me as a writer and that he thought I had a big enough
ego to consider anything “beneath me.”

“I don't think I'm above it, or anything,” I said quickly. “Maybe it's just my genes. I come from, like, the least technologically savvy family since the Flintstones. We don't have DSL. We didn't even have Internet access until a year ago, when my dad needed to read his office e-mail from home. And if my mother didn't entertain these recurrent terrifying fantasies that I was going to get Separated from the Group on this trip, she never in a blue moon would have bought me a cell phone.”

“Show me,” said Lewis.

I groped around in my bag until I found it. Then I silently handed it over to Lewis, who flipped it open and scrutinized it.

“Nice one. You can text message on this,” Lewis said. “And take pictures. It's a good phone.”

“I don't know how to text message,” I said.

“It's easy,” Lewis replied. He started pushing buttons on the phone, which chirped back at him in a friendly way. “Okay, I just entered my e-mail address in your address book. So you down-arrow-key to ‘write text message,' then highlight my address from the address book. After you've finished writing, just hit ‘send.'”

“Well,” I said, taking my phone back, “that's great, thank you, Lewis. But I'm not much of a correspondent, text message–wise.”

In reality, the only person I would ever want to text message was Jake, and I didn't even know if his phone could do that. But I didn't mean to sound ungrateful.

“Thanks for showing me how it works, though,” I added.

Lewis shrugged. “Just thought you should know how to use what you've got.”

“Anything on the Internet about Lindy Sloane?” I asked, switching the subject. When Lewis didn't answer right away, I clarified.

“Lindy Sloane, the Singer/Actress/Celebrity Personality?”

Lewis studied me for a moment, the way he might look at an entirely new species of rodent discovered in Laos. Curious, but not necessarily in a good way. Maybe he didn't know who Lindy Sloane was.

“Please don't tell me you're one of those deluded Sloane fans,” he said.

So he DID know who she was!

“The Sloane Rangers, you mean,” I said.

Lewis nodded and pulled back slightly, as if he'd just realized I very possibly had the bubonic plague. Sloane Rangers lived and breathed for Lindy Sloane. They wore what she wore (or cheap knockoffs). They ate what she ate. They read what she claimed to be reading. And they spent every second of their free time in Lindy Sloane chat rooms, posting articles and fanfic on Lindy Sloane
forums, and poring over the latest paparazzi pics posted on the gossip sites.

“No, Lewis, I am not a Sloane Ranger. In fact, I am imperatively, aggressively, and categorically NOT a Sloane Ranger. You might say I'm the anti–Sloane Ranger. I consider myself more of a Celebrity Social Crime Scene Analyst. I keep track of the outrageous antics, and I incorporate them into the Character Portion of my Mental Pool.”