“They’re hazardous but charming. Did you know that more than a third of Paris’ cobblestones have been paved over? I wouldn’t want to stay anywhere without them,” she replied.
From the back of the taxi, her senses were awakened by the yellow headlights of passing cars, honking horns from frustrated drivers, even distant sirens, foreign though recognizable.
“Oh, my God,” she declared. “We’re actually in Paris!” The hum of the city around her struck her with waves of excitement.
“Yup. Want to go anywhere in particular?” he asked.
“Anywhere with good food and drinks.”
“That narrows it down,” he said with humor. “I know just the place.”
Phoenix exchanged pleasantries with the driver as they traveled through narrow streets and onto a wide boulevard.
Again, his easy grace struck her. It was as if he belonged here, in this European summer evening, as much as he did in bustling Manhattan, or along a beach.
It struck her that Phoenix was the only person she knew in France. Rather than feeling trepidation, however, she was feeling something more dangerous, that somewhere along their mentor path, between advertising briefs and beaches, she’d grown to trust him. She trusted him with scenes from her past, ones that could be the subject of a horror flick. Yet… he was still here.
Orchid watched the city swim by, Paris lamps and car beams pooling strobes of light onto their faces. The shifting light on their skin cast a colored tinge more evocative than a fashion show, more beautiful than a movie.
Phoenix spoke. “How was your day?”
She told him about the dynamics of a managing director and junior staff, upcoming new launches, and how her eyelids were drooping by the end of the meeting.
“I don’t think you’ll be able to fall asleep where we’re going,” he predicted.
They passed dense blocks of buildings, many of them carved with statuesque detail, and then the Louvre Museum, with its magnificent glass pyramid casting a golden illumination across the square.
When they arrived at Les Halles, the driver opened the door and Phoenix helped Orchid from the car. She inhaled the warm air, filled with the pleasure of being in Paris.
They took the escalator down several levels of this underground mecca and joined a throng of locals and tourists, all moving in the same direction. Orchid thought ofkoi swimming frantically toward tossed crumbs.
Storefronts beckoned her with colors, scents and sounds. They passed places with orange block letters, the radiance of pure spa white, then a kaleidoscope of Bohemian layered fabrics, a Turkish flute melody, and incense.
“They’ll be open until midnight,” Phoenix explained. “The tourists never go home, and this is a central point for one of the city’s major Metro stations.”
They walked a good ten minutes before arriving at Musique de Nuit, the restaurant chosen by Phoenix. When they stepped inside, Orchid felt as if her senses were on overload. The aromas of many dishes were almost heady, while at the same time there was a rhythmic, low-level thumping coming from a separate room where people were dancing.
“What do you think?” Phoenix asked.
She looked around. “Let’s eat!”
“Deux,” he told the hostess.
The restaurant was full of couples and groups of friends. The hostess led them to a table adjacent to a bar crafted from rough-hewn wood.
Seated, Orchid looked around. This was far from the elegant restaurant she thought Phoenix preferred. She appreciated the rustic décor, and the wood floor announcing perhaps a century of wear.
They scanned the menu. Orchid was drawn to an extravagant concoction. “Truffle oil and artisan sea salt over a marinated and twice-grilled Portobello,” she read, happy that she had been handed a menu in English. “I might try making that at home. But not for dinner. I prefer something light.”
“Would you like that scotch now?” he asked.
“Surprise me,” she said.
He ordered in French, sounding like a native to her American ear.
“Is the entire week going to be this much fun?”
“Wait’ll you see Cannes.”
