Sighing, I bring the nozzle back to my mouth, drowning out the stifled screams vying for attention in my chaotic well of a mind and ignoring the apparent stares my can-do spirit attracted. Red Beret was right, among her ocean of so much wrong. I’m not flourishing.
And I’m probably weird.
I doubt Harmony envisioned me inhaling copious amounts of artificial cheese on public transportation when she wrote that stupid caption. But hey, for some people self-care means twisting yourself into a pretzel and planting an organic garden that you mainly subsist on, on your balcony, which is actually weird. And for others, it’s traveling halfway across the city for processed cheese. Less weird.
Both are equally valid.
Except yoga is stupid. And dirt is messy. And processed cheese is neither.
A sudden halt on the track jolts my body forward. The lights flicker, and a collective groan undulates its way over the cabin. A good minute from our next stop, any type of stalling bodes poorly for us.
In a jumbled static, the conductor announces there’s an issue on the track ahead, and it’ll be ten to fifteen minutes before we travel forward.
Darn. I pull out my phone to text my friend Eli. I’m meeting him and my roommate, Maria, at American Press, a café with donuts on the edge of the Latin Quarter, a charming part of the city filled with medieval churches and narrow alleyways. Already cutting it close, I’ll be a good twenty minutes late now.
ME: Train stalled. Get to you when I can.
ELI: K. We’re almost there. I think.
ME: Who’s we?
The dots dance and disappear before another message populates.
ELI: Just my coworker.
ELI: OMG. Why is a dude pissing in a red box on the street?
ME: It’s a urinal. You’ll get used to it.
Dots dance for far too long. Oh, hell.
ME: DO NOT ASK ME HOW TO USE THEM.
ELI: But I’ve been holding one since our meeting.
ME: I love you. But hard NOPE.
With an internal groan, I stretch my legs out in front of me, careful not to crunch too much in the seat. I should be excited that my best friend from high school is working here for the next month. And I am.
Mostly.
But I’m already barely functioning from exhaustion, and Eli will unintentionally create a lot of work for me.
He’s your typical Tom Brady is god, fridge deep with Sam Adams, flannels for days, Boston bro who is highly uncomfortable with the unfamiliar. Not the recommended disposition for living abroad. Hopefully his coworker will adjust and help him out.
The train finally jerks forward again, and I send a quick,be there soon, tucking my phone away and standing for my stop.
“Port-Royal. Port-Royal.” Metal on metal screech. The car slows to a halt, and the doors slide open. I rush out with the rest of the hoard, fighting against the incoming passengers, too impatient to wait for us to unload before boarding.
Social etiquette exists for a reason, people!I huff, climbing the concrete stairs and blinking in the fraction of light on the street. Today is still grey, much like my present mood.
Marshal Michel Nay’s statue, sword drawn ready for battle, greets me crossing Avenue de l’Observatoire. An entry I penned dedicated to his story drove an uptick of traffic to my recipes and travel Blog—L’Evie en Rosé. People love those who fearlessly stare death square in the face. And damn did Marshal Nay slay that, refusing his blindfold during execution and giving the firing squad the freakin’ command, ordering the soldiers to aim straight at his heart.
Turning up the street, my phone vibrates in a hey-you’re-getting-a-call rhythm.Incoming: Caleb Buttface O’Sheaflashes on the screen. I could mature and change my brother’s entry, but little sister habits die hard.
“Hey, buttface, what’s up?” I answer, scurrying past an old red brick building out of place among the Lutetian limestone. A long-leashed golden retriever I dub Midas cuts in front of me, and I halt and pivot, narrowly avoiding a cluster of café chairs scattered ahead.
The dance of the Parisian sidewalk.
