He shakes his head. “Not well. I might’ve passed through once, years ago, but that’s about it.”
“It isn’t the prettiest quartier in Paris, I’ll give you that. But it has character. And I love it here.”
“Which aspects, in particular?”
I try to sound like a tour guide. “Belleville used to be a winemaking village. When Paris grew and ate up all the villages around it, Belleville became part of the city but never got a full makeover like the boulevards closer to the center.”
“Now I understand the mix of quaint houses, ugly modern buildings, and classic limestones.”
“Look up at that sign.” I point across the street. “Tang Gourmet. It’s a supermarket-slash-takeaway. And see above the sign?”
He tilts his head, squinting. “The yellow1984thing?”
“Exactly,” I say. “It’s meant to remind us that, wherever we are on the streets of Paris, we’re ‘always being watched.’”
“How reassuring,” he deadpans.
“See the bistro, Aux Folies?” I point it out. “The name’s an homage to the nightclub Folies Belleville, where Piaf used to perform.”
“I was wondering when Edith Piaf would come up.”
“Really?”
He grins. “No, sweet cheeks. I had no idea.”
The unexpected endearment, and the way his gaze caresses my face fill my stomach with something warm and fuzzy.
I point down the street. “There’ll be more of Piaf soon.”
We take a quick detour onto the funky rue Dénoyez with its overflowing sidewalk cafés and restaurants.
I gesture at the walls. “Welcome to Paris’s unofficial street art gallery! No blank surfaces allowed.”
Antoine studies the layers of colorful tags and sprawling murals.
“Interesting,” he says.
“Interesting?” I put my hands on my hips. “That’s all you got? How about bold? Imaginative? Incredible?”
He meets my gaze. “You’re right. As a tattoo artist, I do find all this graffi—I mean, street art, incredible.”
I roll my eyes and lead him back to Rue de Belleville.
A few minutes later, I point at a plaque mounted on the wall of a building. “And here we are! Number 72. This is where Edith Piaf was born, right on the steps of this house.”
“What, in the doorway?” He frowns. “That sounds… unsanitary.”
“Her dad took too long to get home and drive her mom to the hospital. Baby Edith couldn’t wait.”
“Oh, I see.”
I stop and glower at him. “I can’t believe ‘unsanitary’ is all you have to say when you’re literally staring at the literal birthplace of literally our most iconic singer!”
He grins. “I’m literally ashamed of myself.”
“You should be.”
I almost add,Stay in that lighthearted zone, OK?Maybe it will protect you from my parents’ bile.
