It’s my third time in Paris.
I don’t really have a plan, which seems to be the recurring theme of my life right now. I’ve spent the last few weeks hopping around Europe, starting in England for the wedding of a close high school friend. Then, to Porto, Portugal for a few days of urban exploration. Paris was the third stop on the tour, where I would spend just a day before flying to Iceland, the last leg of my trip.
When I arrive in Paris, it's nearly 6 PM local time. I walk out of Charles de Gaulle Airport, and I'm immediately overwhelmed by a wave of heat. I decide to skip public transportation and treat myself to a cab drive. I'm sweating, so the white, floral dress I bought in Portugal clings to my skin like wet tissue paper. When I finally get into a cab, the driver cranks the air, providing some relief.
My Airbnb is in the St. Germain neighborhood, which is about a five-minute walk from Notre Dame Cathedral. I arrive at the check-in time, but my host is nowhere to be seen. I have a SIM card in my phone, but I'm still having trouble getting a decent signal to connect with him. I put my backpack on the ground as a makeshift seat and wait.
After an hour or so, the host arrives, apologetic. He brings me into the apartment building, showing me how to unlock the massive front door, which looks like it belongs on a medieval castle. The apartment is on the first floor, a small, intimate studio with a small sink and closet. When the host leaves me, I set my backpack down, deciding to go back out and explore the neighborhood.
I know I should walk away from the Seine, where I've visited before. I find myself heading towards the river, anyway. There's just something about the time of day. When I get to the water, the sun is setting, and the remaining streaks of light cascade across the water. Before I can stop it, my mind wanders.
At the beginning of my trip, I had ended a fling back home. It was never that serious, but for the majority of the relationship, I was very fixated on the object of my desire. However, after attending the wedding of my friend in the English countryside at the beginning of my trip, I felt a deep sense of loss. What I had always known about this particular relationship surfaced. As I watched her at the front of the church, exchanged vows with her would be husband, the truth was unavoidable. I would never have this kind of experience with this person.
I was so certain of it, I messaged him from the reception.
Still, as I stroll along the Seine, my unresolved feelings linger. I push them away, refusing to feel sad. Because whenever I've visited Paris, I've always brought some kind of baggage with me. On my first visit to Paris, I stayed with my ex-foreign exchange student, a sophisticated Parisian named Marion and her husband, Laurent. They had graciously opened their home to me. My now-ex, who was also in Europe at the time, spontaneously showed up half-way during my stay there. Despite the romantic gesture, he and I fought the entire time I there. I was so focused on him, I barely took in the city.
One sunny afternoon, Marion and I were outside on her porch. I was smoking a cigarette with her, which I almost never do, and lamenting about my romantic situation, which unfortunately, I often do. After I finished complaining, I inhaled deeply and a little too much, resulting in a bit of a coughing fit.
“Melissa,” Marion sighed, taking a puff of her cigarette in the classy way that only the French seem to do. She stopped and mused for a minute.
“For you, I want a beautiful love story.” she said.
That's all she said.
Now, walking across the river, I remember those words. This visit will be different, I promise myself. I only have one night anyway. Tomorrow, I leave for the constant summer daylight of Reykjavik, a place that has always been very quick to show me it’s quirks and charms. I'm looking forward to that comfort, that feeling of safety and belonging.
Paris is standoffish, I decide, taking one last photo of the Seine.
I can't recall if I've taken the same photo before.
I log on to Tinder when I return to the studio, deciding to try to draw some kind of reward from the universe for my difficult, yet logical romantic choice. I write a quick bio – in Paris for one night, let’s grab a drink – and start swiping through the candidates.
Instantly, messages. One dark-haired, thin-faced Parisian asks me where I am. More specifically, which subway stop. Then he asks “what I want”, before a series of question marks and multiple requests for my address before I even have a chance to reply. I unmatch him.
The second suitor is more subtle. He asks about my trip, how long my stay is. He’s attractive, with thick, black, curly hair with wide brown eyes with skin the color of tea. Before I can dig into my interest any further, he invites me to come over to his flat and smoke weed. I tell him I don’t smoke. He replies with his metro stop and home address and tells me to come anyway. I unmatch him.
The third and last potential match is a local architect. After talking for a bit about my visit, his life here, he says he can’t meet up this evening because of an early morning meeting. He requests a date the next night, which I have to refuse because of my afternoon flight.
“Oh,” he replies.
“We’ll probably never meet,” he says.
“Probably not,” I reply.
After a few more minutes of swiping, I get a message. It's from a friend of mine, who used to live in Paris, replying to a message asking for recommendations. He provides a local jazz club called "Le Caveau de la Huchette."
"The locals love it," he promised. I pull it up on Google Maps and see that it is within walking distance of the studio.
After quickly touching up my black eyeliner, I head over.
There's a cover charge at the door, so I'm surprised to find that the club is pretty empty. The only jazz I hear is crackling through a speaker. Disappointed, I go to the large, wooden bar and order a glass of Bordeaux. The bartender, a quirky hipster type, seems to sense my low spirits.
"Would you rather have an entire bottle?" he jokes.
I laugh.
"Just a glass today," I reply.
He pulls out a margarita glass.
“This glass?” he slyly asks.
“No!” I exclaim, giggling.
I sit there for a few minutes, sipping my wine, when I notice a dark staircase near the entrance. Glass in hand, I gingerly make my way down the shadowy, twisting steps. The reveal is spectacular, a secluded, cavern-like room with a stage. Before long, a band comes on and the energy transforms. Elegant women glide across the floor. Thin, lanky bow-tied men twirl them around like little ballerinas in jewelry boxes.
I feel him before I see him. The tall, obvious tourist behind me inches closer and closer. I hear him breathing as he leans in, over the shoulder I’m using to strategically turn my back to him.
“Do you want to dance?” He says with a level of assertiveness I’m not comfortable with.
I feel guilty, but the scowl that crosses his face when I decline subsides it. Hoping to escape him, I move across the room to a secluded bench. Sitting there, I try to see myself outside of myself. I'm a petite, elvish looking girl with choppy, bleached hair. I’m wearing my signature brown, worn boots. The straps of my almost too-short, dusty pink dress are tied around my shoulders. A tattered black and white striped tank top is lazily draped over it.
I fixate on the band, a little scared to make eye contact with anyone around me. They're energetic and expressive. There's the puffed-up cheeks of the trumpet player and the smooth, intricate movements of the drummer. The music seems to cast a spell over everyone else. A graceful woman floats across the dance floor, her skirt rising and falling with the rhythm, like some kind of delicate flower, when, suddenly –
“Oh, so you don’t dance?”
I look beside me, and there’s the shortest man I’ve ever seen. He looks expectant, and about 80 years old. His eyes are pale blue and almost the same shade as mine. He’s completely bald, to the point where light reflects off the top of his head. I stand up and realize that he’s even shorter than I am... and I’m 5’2.
“I’m not a very good dancer,” I offer as an explanation and an apology.
He scoffs expertly, in the way that only the French seem to be able to.
“Come, come," he says.
I struggle at first, but my partner is determined. After a few minutes, I dance with a newfound confidence, despite some occasional clumsiness. My dress, seemingly made for an occasion like this, swirls and twirls up as he spins me. I’m still an awkward dancer and I miss some cues, but Jean-Claude didn’t seem to mind.
(Because of course his name was Jean-Claude.)
A row of handsome men that I didn’t notice earlier are sitting and watching us. As we dance, they seem to perk up. I notice that one of them moves to the bench I was sitting at. At one point, the guy on the bench and I make eye contact, but Jean-Claude refuses to give up his clumsy dance partner. He continues to spin and dip me.
When the band begins to wind down, Jean-Claude suggests we get a drink at the bar. Upstairs, I order another Bordeaux and Jean-Claude goes with a random cocktail. My cheeks flush as I talk excitedly about my trip to Europe thus far. Jean-Claude, who doesn't speak much English, tries to keep up. I learn that he was born (or perhaps, owns a home) in Croatia. He’s been to Yellowstone National Park and wants to go to New Orleans, though, it’s possible it’s the other way around. He hates new jazz and curses the movie La La Land. It’s the only part of the conversation I understand. I try to tell him that I watched that movie on the plane ride over from the States and he just curses it more.
It's late now, and Jean-Claude insists on walking me home. The streets are still packed, ranging from happy, exuberant groups of girls giggling and holding hands to men in tacky, jewel toned button downs, who lean up against various corners and hover in door frames, watching the women laugh.
We arrive at the studio safely. For a moment, we stand awkwardly in the street, unsure of what to say as a farewell. I contemplate asking him if he’s on Facebook, then realize how ridiculous it would be to ask an old French man if he’s on Facebook. He obviously understands this. But instead of saying, “We’ll probably never meet again,” he says, “You are very, very, very."
He doesn't specify very, very what.
I promise to return to the jazz club again someday. I turn to unlock my front door, and when I glance back to say goodbye again, he's nowhere to be seen, gone as quickly as he was to appear.
I'll never know why he chose to spend his time entertaining a girl nearly 40-50 years his junior or what was in it for him, but I'm grateful.
Even if love is slow to show itself to me, Paris finally has.