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La Vie en Donut
WhatIwouldn’tgivefor a bite of that man’s hulking French stick right now.
The decadent aroma of butter, salt, yeast, water, and flour—mixed, kneaded, and baked to perfection—wafts through the bleary Métro car shimmying along the Paris underground.
Stomach rumbling, I pin my stare on the elongated Adonis in the hands of the blond man standing in front of me. Saint Honoré, that’d pair nicely with the can of “depression cheese” I’m clutching.
He rips off another hunk, his head bopping along to whatever tune is blaring through his headphones.
Maybe I could snatch and run at the next stop.
No. No. Running wouldn’t work.
Too gruesome.
A woman in a blue pleather seat nearby peeks up from her FNAC bargain bin buy ofL’étrange histoire de Benjamin Buttonand narrows her gaze on the baguette, undoubtedly plagued with the same indecent thoughts.
She’s most likely a new import from the US judging by her walking shoes and the nervous energy flicking through her left foot. A stereotypical lost soulstudying abroad at the Sorbonne, but her heart belongs to a former generation of Americans in Paris: the wide-eyed individuals who were enamored with the simplicity, grace, and decadence of Parisian culture.
The City of Lights is more than Pinterest-perfect vibes to her; there’s a replenishing energy to it that builds up and nourishes souls—a moveable feast.She’ll disembark at Saint-Michel Notre-Dame, even though the photo opportunities in front of Our Lady are minimal. Maybe recite a line or two from Victor Hugo’sNotre-Dame de Parisbefore losing any chill she has in front of the green and yellow facade of Shakespeare and Company, a famous bookstore sitting across the slow waters of the Seine from Notre Dame, as I once did.
She’s one of three Americans in this car if my keen powers of observation are correct. Well, four, if you count me.
“I’m skipping my language class. I’m close to fluent anyway, and it’s boring,” one of the other Americans clad in a red beret declares, FaceTiming in the corner of the cabin. Her seemingly unfounded confidence garners a few snorts. She has all the makings of a quintessential Cyclops, and they’re not exactly known for their linguistic capabilities.
A Cyclops experiences Paris behind their phone’s camera lens, preferring to focus on the sepia-toned vibes of the place above all else and remains ignorant of the rich culture and history breathing out of every inch of this city. They use one eye for a quick snapshot rather than gathering through all the senses to create a masterpiece.
“I’m headed over to the Chomps Eelisses,” Red Beret says, running her ivory fingers through the ends of her rich chocolate brown hair falling in loose waves under her atrocity of a chapeau. How is she even getting reception down here?
I’ve tried to load something,anything, for the last ten minutes to keep my brain from spiraling into terrible person mode and judging and nicknaming everyone. But it’s too late now.
Keeping my features neutral while my ears bleed is a feat. Still, I manage, tightening my grip on the aluminum can of cheese and re-centering myself, finding solace in the fact that Red Beret should have changed lines two stops ago if her intended destination really is the Champs-Élysées.
“I saw this super cute café on Harmony in Paris’s Instagram,” she continues, butchering Harmony’s handle with her American accent.
Harmony, the passive-aggressive queen, wouldn’t stand for that massacre.
“It’s Pair—ee.”She’d glower in her patented glimmering tone.“If you say it right, it rhymes, silly.”
“She was drinking water from a wine glass with a leafy salad that totally popped against the background. The aesthetic was everything.”
Huh. I must have missed that.
I try my luck at the Instagram app, and to my genuine surprise, it actually loads. Like always, Harmony’s picture sits on top of my timeline.Daily reminder—you gotta nourish to flourishcaptions a highly filtered photo of a salad with an ever-present, Roman-inspired limestone arch looming triumphantly against a blue sky.
Typical Harmony line.
“Saint-Michel Notre-Dame. Saint-Michel Notre-Dame,” crackles over the speaker. The car jostles to a halt, and a man with Bunyanesque proportions and prominent sea legs wobbles precariously close to me at the sudden deceleration. The third and final American is an Aptly Named Tourist or ANT—a seeker of the Tour d’Eiffel (I’m certain that’s the word’s actual etymology). Off-balance, he stumbles into me, and I barrel toward an elderly gentleman in a scally cap. I bump into his back, and cigarettes, Roquefort cheese, and a hint of citrus overwhelm my nostrils.
“Pardon.” I muffle a cough, righting my stance. My hand fumbles, and my traitorous thumb double taps the photo. The little heart underneath turns red.
Oh, son of a biscuit.
This slip of the thumb will cost me, both physically and mentally. In thirty minutes or less, Harmony will be sliding into my DMs asking for a lunch date, guaranteed. Which as a recovering people-pleaser, I will agree to, attend, and then smash my head into the hard surface of the table while she attempts to cure my chronic illness through the power of suggestion.
“Have you tried yoga?”
