Frankie in Paris by Shauna McGuiness Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Shauna McGuiness
around the hotel.” Why wasn’t she so concerned about witnesses
when she was jonesing for pretzels on the airplane earlier?
I rolled my eyes at her and used the same
method to gently close the door. It
automatically locked behind us.
The elevator brought us back down to the empty lobby. I peeked around the corner and found a little
restaurant with ten or twelve small tables covered with white tablecloths. Très charmant . When I turned around, Henri was there.
“We serve only le
petit déjeuner
,” he said.
“ Merci ,”
I responded, translating that they only served breakfast.
“ Ah! Parlez-vous français ?” he asked.
“ Un petit
peu . I, uh, took French in
school. I’m sure my accent is terrible.”
“ Non! Ce n’est pas terrible !” He smiled. He was probably around forty years old. “Eet eez unfortunate zat you did not arrive a few days sooner. You and your grand-mère missed
all zee Bastille Day activities.”
“ Il fait t rès chaud . Is it always this hot here?”
“ Non . Eet eez hotter than eet has been in many
years.”
“Lucky us.” I sounded forlorn, and he laughed.
Lulu was already outside of the glass doors.
“Enjoy your walk,” Henri winked, and opened the
door for me.
“ Merci
beaucoup !” I thanked him, and
stepped out into France.
***
Suddenly I was standing on the set of an artsy
movie—the kind with subtitles that only play at the pretentious downtown
theaters.
A girl was
riding a bicycle with a basket attached to the front. It was filled with books. The women that I saw walking down the
cobblestone street looked terribly stylish and European. They had short haircuts or elegant up-dos,
and there is just something about a French girl’s lips. They always seem to be pouting. Both the upper and lower lips are pushed out,
just a little bit. I thought they were
beautiful and wondered if I could achieve the same effect.
Nah, I'd
probably look like I had a problem with my teeth.
There was an actual French florist
selling actual French flowers on the corner of the street. It was extremely warm outside, but it no
longer bothered me because I was so overwhelmed at the sights before me.
The buildings all along the street were tall
and had little wrought iron window boxes. Everything looked so old, but elegant and detailed. So different from downtown San Jose! A chanteuse sang in my
head. It was Edith Piaf, French cultural
icon. Her voice was trilling “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien”, almost as
though she stood next to me belting out the song. She had died a long time ago, but whenever
you think about France,
I’ll bet it’s Madame Piaf that you hear, somewhere in the background of your
brain.
I love
this place.
Lulu motioned me towards a pay phone outside of
the Hotel de Lutèce. I dug the phone
card, which my mother had loaned me for our trip, out of my purse. After a few moments, my grandmother was connected
to Grampy. She explained that we had
arrived safely and she would call again, sometime that week, ending the
conversation with a request that he call my mom to let her know that we had
made it.
Two little old men sat at a round table at a café
across the street. They were having some
sort of argument. I wasn’t able to catch
any of the words, but the tone of their conversation drifted up into the sweet
music of the neighborhood, along with whistling and footsteps and ... too many
sounds to process.
A few doors down from the hotel stood a beauty
salon—and I imagined that all sorts of glamorous foreign things happened inside.
“Well, where to?” Asked Lulu.
“Let’s just walk for a while. The hotel only serves breakfast. Maybe we can find something to eat for
dinner.”
“Sounds good.”
“Oh, and Lulu?”
She looked up at me and flipped her sunglasses
down over her eyes.
“I love it. I really love it.
when she was jonesing for pretzels on the airplane earlier?
I rolled my eyes at her and used the same
method to gently close the door. It
automatically locked behind us.
The elevator brought us back down to the empty lobby. I peeked around the corner and found a little
restaurant with ten or twelve small tables covered with white tablecloths. Très charmant . When I turned around, Henri was there.
“We serve only le
petit déjeuner
,” he said.
“ Merci ,”
I responded, translating that they only served breakfast.
“ Ah! Parlez-vous français ?” he asked.
“ Un petit
peu . I, uh, took French in
school. I’m sure my accent is terrible.”
“ Non! Ce n’est pas terrible !” He smiled. He was probably around forty years old. “Eet eez unfortunate zat you did not arrive a few days sooner. You and your grand-mère missed
all zee Bastille Day activities.”
“ Il fait t rès chaud . Is it always this hot here?”
“ Non . Eet eez hotter than eet has been in many
years.”
“Lucky us.” I sounded forlorn, and he laughed.
Lulu was already outside of the glass doors.
“Enjoy your walk,” Henri winked, and opened the
door for me.
“ Merci
beaucoup !” I thanked him, and
stepped out into France.
***
Suddenly I was standing on the set of an artsy
movie—the kind with subtitles that only play at the pretentious downtown
theaters.
A girl was
riding a bicycle with a basket attached to the front. It was filled with books. The women that I saw walking down the
cobblestone street looked terribly stylish and European. They had short haircuts or elegant up-dos,
and there is just something about a French girl’s lips. They always seem to be pouting. Both the upper and lower lips are pushed out,
just a little bit. I thought they were
beautiful and wondered if I could achieve the same effect.
Nah, I'd
probably look like I had a problem with my teeth.
There was an actual French florist
selling actual French flowers on the corner of the street. It was extremely warm outside, but it no
longer bothered me because I was so overwhelmed at the sights before me.
The buildings all along the street were tall
and had little wrought iron window boxes. Everything looked so old, but elegant and detailed. So different from downtown San Jose! A chanteuse sang in my
head. It was Edith Piaf, French cultural
icon. Her voice was trilling “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien”, almost as
though she stood next to me belting out the song. She had died a long time ago, but whenever
you think about France,
I’ll bet it’s Madame Piaf that you hear, somewhere in the background of your
brain.
I love
this place.
Lulu motioned me towards a pay phone outside of
the Hotel de Lutèce. I dug the phone
card, which my mother had loaned me for our trip, out of my purse. After a few moments, my grandmother was connected
to Grampy. She explained that we had
arrived safely and she would call again, sometime that week, ending the
conversation with a request that he call my mom to let her know that we had
made it.
Two little old men sat at a round table at a café
across the street. They were having some
sort of argument. I wasn’t able to catch
any of the words, but the tone of their conversation drifted up into the sweet
music of the neighborhood, along with whistling and footsteps and ... too many
sounds to process.
A few doors down from the hotel stood a beauty
salon—and I imagined that all sorts of glamorous foreign things happened inside.
“Well, where to?” Asked Lulu.
“Let’s just walk for a while. The hotel only serves breakfast. Maybe we can find something to eat for
dinner.”
“Sounds good.”
“Oh, and Lulu?”
She looked up at me and flipped her sunglasses
down over her eyes.
“I love it. I really love it.