Love in a Strange Place

“This is it, I see the street name, Rue de Montparnasse.”

“The Comfort Inn – Sacre Coeur?”

“No, the one . . . next to it.” I pointed to a pale pink townhouse with ornate, rusted iron fixtures around each window. I thought it was gorgeous.

“Maybe we could stay in the Comfort Inn?” R said, putting down my overpacked suitcase.

“No, no, no, this is the point. We’re gonna be starving artists in Montmartre, we’re going somewhere where they barely understand us. We’re going somewhere with no TV. That’s the point. It’s Paris.”

The truth was, R couldn’t afford to stay anywhere else, so I’d created the image of romantic Parisians living in poverty to passively force him into a realistic budget.

I used my sad version of Franglais to convince the owner of the building to give us a room. A 5th story walk-up sans bathroom. The shower cost 2 euros, and was on the first floor. I thought it was hilarious – we opened the windows and let the February breeze come in the room, collapsing on the squeaky bed.

The next day we planned on faithfully adhering to the guidebook’s list of Parisian activities: the Eiffel Tower, the Sacre Couer, the Luxembourg Gardens and the Ile de France. But we decided to eat brunch first in one of the outdoor heated cafés near our hotel.

As soon as R realized the 7-euro meal contained only a few baguettes, a croissant and bitter, black coffee, he started pouting.

“I can’t believe they don’t even give you eggs,” he complained.

“Well, we’re not in New Jersey. It’s not like we’re at Perkins. Do you really want to feel like you’re at Perkins in Paris?”

“I just want eggs.” He crossed his arms.

I tried poking him in the face with my baguette. I thought this might elicit a smile. Instead, he swatted it away like a fly, sending it clear across the café floor. I looked at where it had landed, next to the foot of an elderly French man, enjoying a smoke with his croissant. A small bulldog with sad, watery black eyes sat loyally by the man’s feet. It looked at me curiously before nibbling delicately at the baguette. I gave up.

“Ok, that’s great. So here are the keys, and here’s the map. I’m going to see the Gardens.” I rose from my chair.

“You’re not seriously leaving me here.”

“No I am. So I’ll see you at the train station around 4.”

I walked out into the cold air towards the metro where the au pairs supervised children on the pink and purple merry-go-round. I looked back over my shoulder at the café. He’d finally uncrossed his arms.