Despite what Whit says,the way to my heart is not through my stomach. And whatever his assertion, he’s embedded himself in there.
My heart, not my stomach.
He is the best of men, and not because he brought me to Paris, but because he pays attention. Because he listens and he watches, and then he offers not just material things and experiences but thoughts and ideas. Conversation and silliness. It’s all so subtle; the way he treats people is almost by sleight of hand. What you see on the outside is this quite upright, slightly austere, successful man, and I’d bet that’s where most people’s observations end. Maybe my history with him makes me see beyond this facade. I’m not sure what it is because it’s hard to see past all this love.
I’m so doomed.
We eat flaky croissants in a tiny café away from the tourist track, as recommended by the driver, Jacques, who has nerves of steel because driving in the center of Paris is not for the fainthearted!See a space and squeeze into itis how I’d describe the Parisienne driving style.
Anyhoo, at the café, I order, “deux cafés au lait et deux pains au chocolat, s’il vous plait,” in my best (but still terrible) French.
“You want lattes?” the unimpressed bearded hipster answers from behind the counter, but he doesn’t dampen my enthusiasm.
“No thanks, when in Rome!” I say, but he’s already turned.
I’ve read that French people dip their croissant in coffee for breakfast, but after trying, I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s a perfect way to ruin a perfectly good breakfast. But the experience provides the perfect excuse for us to stop at one of the more traditional cafés an hour or so later, where the waiters wear long white aprons and are old, grouchy, and rude. It’s exactly the experience I imagined it would be!
And then? Well, Paris is my oyster.
“Twenty-four hours,” Whit tells me. “One whole day and night to make Paris your own.”
“We’re staying overnight? But I haven’t packed a bag.”
“Don’t sweat it. It’s all been taken care of. All that’s left for you to do is decide what you want to do.” He presses a guidebook in my hand, and I start to laugh.
“They still make these? Google is everyone’s go to these days.”
“Don’t be a smart arse,” he says, spinning me around and swatting mysmart arse. “Get choosing before we waste the day.”
“Are the touristy places open in the evening, too?”
“It’s like this,” he says, lifting his wrist to see his watch better. “I should’ve said you’ve a whole seven hours to fill with what you’d like to do because there are a couple of places I’d like you to see this evening.”
“Would that be… things inside of a hotel room?”
“What do you take me for?”
“The best,” I say, throwing myself at him, sliding my hands around his waist to hug him.
I’m so glad Whit suggested I wear tennis shoes because we walk everywhere for the rest of the day! We walk hand in hand along the Seine and take a million photographs with the Eiffel Tower as a backdrop. When we make it to the base, I decide I prefer lookingatthe structure over visiting it. I’m not a fan of crowds, and the queues are huge. Instead, we munch on an unimpressive yet overpriced crepe from a vendor on the other side of the road, then I insist on haggling with the guys selling cheap touristy knickknacks. No way I’m overpaying for that Eiffel Tower on a keychain! A man tries to sell us cigarettes, another champagne from a bucket, and the third a poorly made I LOVE PARIS hat. Refusing all of the above, I splash out a few Euros (withdrawn from an ATM) on a cartoon caricature of us on our day in Paris.
“I’ll treasure it forever,” I say, hugging it to my chest.
“Is my chin really that big?”
In answer, I tip up onto my toes and press my lips there. “It’s perfect.” Just like the rest of him. My head does a double take. “Look, Whit! It’s a Soiree Bus!” I watch in delight as the sleek vehicle passes by.
“I’d rather queue three hours to get to the top of the Eiffel Tower,” Whit grumbles, unimpressed. “I’m a bit long in the tooth for disco buses and cheap shots of vodka.”
“I don’t want to go on it. I just think the name is amazing. Party Bus is so lame. The Soiree Bus? That’s where it’s at.”
A day isn’t long enough to see all that Paris has to offer, and while I’d love to wander around Le Louvre, the queue wait times aren’t the best use of our time. Instead, we call Jacque, and he takes us to the Montmartre area of Paris, where we eat lunch in a tiny café where the decor looks unchanged since the nineteen thirties. When Whit orders escargot and I pull a face, he and the server laugh. And he points out when I place my order (mussels in white wine) that we basically ordered the same, the only difference being he’ll eat snails from the land and I’ll eat snails from the sea. I get over myself when the food arrives, and the aromas hit my olfactory system.
“This is the best bread ever,” I say around a hunk of heavenly bread that’s crispy on the outside and oh-so fluffy in the middle. The food is delicious, and the champagne is sold by the glass. And when we leave the café, I realize why Parisiennes are not overweight. It’s all the walking they do. But, oh my gosh, is Montmartre perfect! We wander through cobblestone streets, each corner turned revealing a pretty vista or a piece of historic statuary. We find ourselves in the Place du Tetre and watch the oh-so talented street artists before taking in the Sacré Coeur Basilica vista. Before the evening begins, we stumble across a blue-tiled piece of wall art calledLe Mur des Je T’aime.The wall of I love you’s.
We stand for a while, each of us lost to our own thoughts as our eyes scan the many ways to say I love you. The wall speaks of language.Je t’aime. Te amo. Rakastan sinua. Aroha i a koutou. But the language of love is more than words. As we stand, holding hands, I think of Whit and the ways he shows his affection. His family is so lucky, and I hope they know that. I think of how he’d stepped up to fill his father’s shoes when so many men in his place would’ve been consumed with their own grief. I think of the time he devotes and how his loved one’s needs are his priority. I think of his thoughtfulness, and I think about the person he is.
Whit tugs on my hand, and as I turn, he’s wearing this expression that I find really hard to place.
