The Little Bookshop On The Seine. Rebecca Raisin
footwear next time. I was a ballet flats kind of girl, and the wedged boots – which Missy had demanded I teeter in – had taken their toll.
No one will guess you’re American! she’d exclaimed. As though in order to be accepted here, I’d have to first fool them that I was French, and that could only be done by wearing the right shoes. I smiled, remembering the conversation. My heart tugged for my friends who were so far away, not only in miles, but in spirit. Would I find friends here? I couldn’t imagine anyone being as lively and animated as the girls, but I hoped I was wrong. I didn’t want to spend months here pining for them and the only way around that would be to mingle, and pretend I was a chatty, outgoing explorer. It was time to stop hiding, and start participating in real life.
Glancing up, the sky was different here; it was smudged white and baby blue, and somehow brighter, more vivid than Ashford. The air was richer, sweet and pungent, and wholly new.
Right, there was no more time to dither. “Excusez-moi?” I said to a woman pushing a stroller. She glared at me and kept going. I tried again with a young man, who shook his head, phone jammed against his ear, and pointed to the train. I tried not to take it personally, everyone was busy. I was due at Once Upon a Time, in fact I was overdue. Mild panic set in, as I pictured myself catching trains back and forth, and never getting anywhere. Gulping, I grabbed the suitcase handle and spun to go back to the station, but instead banged heads with a man passing by. I clutched my forehead, eyes watering with the sting of the collision. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, wanting to dissolve into the pavement.
His eyes were scrunched closed, he blinked a few times, and then gazed at me. “American?” he asked.
The shoes hadn’t fooled him. “Yes, is it so obvious?”
“You spoke English,” he said. “With an American accent.”
Kill me now. “Right. I did. Sorry about the bump.” There was a small red mark where we’d collided. I’d certainly made a mark on Paris, or more specifically, Parisians.
He waved me away. Embarrassment made my cheeks flush, and now that I had someone to ask directions, I wasn’t brave enough to. He must think I was some kind of village idiot. His lips turned up, as if he was amused by me. Which no doubt he was in an I’m-laughing-at-you, not with-you, way.
“Are you OK now?” he asked, as if the bump on the head dazed me.
“Oui. I’m fine.”
Super.
Peachy.
Lost.
He tilted his head. “Where are you going?”
I forced a smile, all the while wondering if he was about to snatch me. Why was he so nice, when everyone else wouldn’t give me the time of day? Was he going to try and snaffle me into a taxi? How exactly did someone pinch a person in broad daylight? Would he take my bags too? If I was going to be abducted, I’d still like to read. Scenes from the movie Taken flashed in my mind. I shook my head to dislodge them.
“Don’t look so afraid,” he said, laughing. “I’m not going to kidnap you!”
A kidnapper wouldn’t mention kidnapping, surely? My mother had a lot to answer for, putting this crazy fear into me.
“That’s a relief.” I relaxed my shoulders. “I’m trying to head into central Paris… But the maps, there’s so many different lines.”
Running a hand through the gray shock of his hair, he chuckled, like he encountered this kind of thing every day. “You’ve gone the wrong way. Go back to the platform, but catch the train from the other side.” My face fell. “It’s OK. You’ll get lost many more times. The trick is, to embrace the drama of it all.” And with that he bid me adieu, his wise eyes sparkling, as though he’d been sent to stop me from feeling sorry for myself. Didn’t I say I wanted to get lost? And here I was. Lost in Paris. Tick! And not kidnapped! Tick!
Feeling adventurous, I dragged my bags and myself to the front of a little bistro, with red cane chairs that faced the busy road. A glass of vin blanc would give me some liquid courage to face the manic train dance again.
A waiter with a flirty smile walked over.
“Bonjour. Oui, madam?”
I smiled, it was the accent, especially pouring from the lips of someone resembling a male model who’d just stepped from the front cover of a magazine. With as much confidence as I could muster I said, “Bonjour, un vin blanc, merci.” The first thing Sophie had taught me was how to order wine, she must have known it’d come in handy.
“One white wine, of course,” he said and winked before walking away. I resisted the urge to giggle. He winked. My friends would be rolling on the floor by now, pointing and gesticulating at his retreating back. I felt very sophisticated sitting alone, in some unidentified quarter of Paris. If only my friends could see me now.
My mouth hung open when I gazed at the building before me. Once Upon a Time, the sign read which was pinned to the top of the building, weathered and faded. I’d seen countless photos, and Sophie had taken her laptop out the front when we Skyped to show me the façade and the view of the Seine. But seeing it in real-life – its faded sepia brick, with the murky tea-colored river across the road – was something else entirely. The way the building leaned softly, as if time and the elements had warped it.
Time slowed, while I gawped in every direction. A world of accents chattering away only just registered. There was the scent of the Seine; earthy, fathomless. The bustle of waiters at a busy bistro, glasses clinking together, the tink of cutlery on plates. Shielding my eyes from the glare of their white shirts, and silver trays held aloft, I spun, taking in the three-hundred-and-sixty degree view, like a panorama.
Cars honked and parked in spots which looked far too small, their expert drivers negotiating the tight space, without much maneuvering. Along the sidewalk were a cluster of cherry trees; naked without their perfumed blossoms. They stood tall and proud like watchmen out front. Off to the side of the shop was a little wooden house, on stilts like a letterbox, filled with picture books and marked with a hand painted sign that read “Kids’ library.” A line of children waited patiently for their turn to open the tiny glass door and select a pre-loved book. Behind them, parents snapped shots of the Notre Dame looming in the distance, or the Pont Saint-Michel to the right. Others held maps, their faces scrunched in concentration.
I laughed at the sheer craziness of it all. It was so busy! I was like a dot in the jumble of people going about the business of living.
Turning back to the bookshop, I stepped closer and peeked in the window. It was just as I imagined; dark wooden shelves wound to the ceiling, books were double stacked, the ones higher up were beige with dust. On the main floor, rickety old tables bowed with the weight of colorful new editions.
A towering pile of the latest blockbusters were displayed by the front door in an unapologetic heap. Which books would sell best here? I couldn’t wait to find out. In Ashford, romance was my biggest genre, the women in my small town kept me afloat with their purchases of sweeping love stories. Would it be the same here, in the city known for romance and passion? I hoped so. I could usually tell what genre a person favored after a quick once-over and a study of their mannerisms – it was a gift I was proud of, and I delighted in pairing up a book with its owner.
Somewhere above was Sophie’s apartment, and the thought of a quick snooze on crisp sheets was too tempting to resist. I’d say a quick hello to the staff, and then sleep. Adventures would be so much better once I’d rested. I studiously avoided gawping into the window of the fromagerie next door, out of loyalty to my friend. I’d be living on French cheese that much was certain, but I wouldn’t buy it there, lest it taste like despair.
I pushed open