Soon after my first Parisian faux pas, I took great care to legitimize my presence, by finding a nice café where I could sit on a terrace and watch the world go by. I even chose a quiet side street, to avoid the noise of traffic and the sight of the Starbucks logo. To top it all off, there was a beautiful church to my left just waiting to be admired. It was the perfect view, but the hazard of turning your head on a terrace to catch the perfect view is that nine times out of ten, someone’s cigarette smoke will blow right into your face. In this case, the smartly-dressed twenty-something woman had no reaction to my over-exaggerated coughing when her cancer fumes slid down my throat. I wanted to tell her how impressed I was that cigarettes were keeping her skinny, but that didn’t mean I wanted to join her in an early death. Besides, I enjoyed being a cigarette-free size six.

Unfortunately I didn’t know how to say all of this in French. At least not coherently.

Instead I flipped my long dark hair in her direction and said, rather loudly: “Excusez moi!”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oui?”

Did I just start a conversation? Oops. “Oh, nothing.” She rolled her eyes at my English and blew more smoke in my face.

Dying of smoke inhalation wasn’t on my list of goals, so I finished up my café crème and hurried out of there, continuing my day as a total outsider in Paris...

***

A few hours later, after buying the basic groceries and putting another checkmark next to the goal of being a grown-up, I surveyed both my suitcases. One was lying open but empty with my clothing strewn everywhere, and the other I hadn’t even touched. It was a tall order, to slowly unpack a year of your life.

Slow, tedious...but nothing that couldn’t be solved with a bottle of wine and a dance party of one.

Before my solo dance moves could begin, my laptop buzzed to life with a Skype call from my parents.

“Ugh, already?” I combed through my hair with my fingers, examined my jet-lagged face in the camera, almost gagged at my own reflection, and at last accepted the call. My father had his face right up to the screen, which gave the impression of a giant brown floating head.

His smile had a melancholy glow. “Sixteen hours ago you were right here. And now? Too far away!”

I sighed. “It’s okay, we can chat every day if you want!”

I glanced out my window, wondering what I’d possibly have to say to my parents if we chatted every day. My gaze settled onto the gothic church across the street, complete with creepy gargoyles and all. I turned my attention back to the screen, but now it had gone all black. I assumed I’d lost my connection, until suddenly the black blob moved, eventually turning into colours and a human form. She settled into a seat beside my father, and my breath immediately stalled in my throat.

“Well? Don’t you say hello to your mother?”

She frowned in her usual way, but just for a second it felt like she couldn’t hide a smile. The momentary smile was shocking, since my mother hadn’t even said goodbye before I’d left. I couldn’t have been that surprised, since not getting married, quitting a corporate job, and moving to Paris to write were not exactly plus points on the “Indian-Canadian” scale of motherly approval. But now, with her barely-concealed smile, it almost felt like the whole thing had never happened. The entire saga was in line with our family tradition of never talking about our feelings.  

I waved awkwardly.

“Were you sick on the plane?” she said. “Your face looks very bad!”

I smiled in spite of the comment. Thousands of miles away, but I finally have my mother back....

***

A hip-hop song was playing but I wasn’t following the words; this was not an uncommon event, since original hip-hop lyrics about “Tits out! Ass up!” weren’t exactly my preferred choice for sing-alongs. What I liked was the beat, so I blocked out the words with my very own Paris lyrics. “I have no friends!” I took a healthy swig from my bottle of wine. “My accent sucks!” Another swig. “I’m not in love!” I tossed a pile of shirts on the bed. “But this is Paris!” I nodded and waved the bottle around. “So I better get on it!” I took another swig. “Or on...him?” I grabbed my jeans out of the suitcase and tossed them across the room. “Or under him!” I giggled and took a last swig. “Viva la France!”

The music played along as I stumbled to bed, hoping I’d remember to add an “x” on my list of goals, for my failure at being “a fully-functioning grown up”in this moment.

I passed out immediately.

***

A whopping sixteen hours later, in the middle of the afternoon Paris time, one of my eyes opened a crack. When the other eye opened, my brain came to terms with the massive headache that was throbbing with a cruel ferocity. My movements were sloth-like, as I crawled out of bed and started digging around in my suitcase. Eventually I found the bottle of precious painkillers, and just like that, real life in Paris began...

***

A Canadian flag.

In Paris?

This was not an optical illusion on my jet-lagged second day in Paris. The actual flag had seen many rains and probably many seasons, but the yellowed hue could not distract from this first reminder of home. It swayed back and forth atop a rounded door lined with twinkly lights, this entry into Paris’s Canadian bookshop.

I should’ve continued on to get more groceries, since I’d forgotten to buy carbs the day before and would need them to cure this hangover. Even so, what I “should’ve done” simply flittered away, since being in Paris and not having a job made you careless…or maybe the word was carefree.

Past boxes of books stacked high on two tables, I wandered inside and entered a whole other world.

The glow of yellow lighting and opera music soundtrack was the least of it; but the impossibly narrow aisles, so bursting with books that you felt like they would fall on top of you? Well that had a charm that was limitless (accompanied by a fear of dying via book-avalanche).  The aisles wound their way around the cozy shop, so you never quite knew what or whom you’d run into next. Like when I almost collided with a rickety wooden ladder and the plump middle-aged woman atop it.

“Well look at that!” she exclaimed in a cheery Canadian accent. “I knew we would have it!” She reached for a book, slid the bookcase to her left back in place to cover up the one she’d been searching through (layers of sliding bookcases?! Oh my god!), and handed the book to a skinny young man.

“You must have this entire store memorized!” he exclaimed, in a smooth and debonair English accent. Too bad you’re so skinny that I would break you. “Thank you so much for this.” His gaze moved down the aisle. “And actually I think I’ll look around a bit more.”

“Of course,” said the woman, who I now assumed owned the bookstore.  “Take your time!”

He skittered away on his spindly little stick-legs, which left me face-to-face with the woman. After day one in Paris I was definitely feeling like an out-of-touch alien, with the default assumption that no one would like me. And so, paranoia ran as high as my need to be liked.

“This shop is amazing,” I said. “I mean I only just got here yesterday and bam! A Canadian book shop!”

Was that too enthusiastic? I’m losing this game already.

“Remember though, we have a lot more than just Canadian books!” She climbed down the ladder one measured step at a time.

 “You don’t have to downplay Canadian books to me,” I said. “Unless you’re forced to say that for the benefit of Americans...” I frowned. “Like I have this one American friend, and she didn’t even know Ryan Gosling is Canadian! Can you believe that? He’s only the crown jewel of the great white north!” My eyes bulged as I was now fully immersed in my own personal monologue. “Or maybe it’s our fault, as a nation. Maybe we’re just not doing enough to advertise our natural resources...”

My little speech dissolved back into my surroundings, as the owner stood directly in front of me now, staring at me like I was a freak. She stuck out her hand all the same and smiled. “I’m Barb, welcome to Paris.”

So she doesn’t think I’m a freak. Crisis averted.

I beamed and accepted the handshake. “Thank you! And I’m Romi by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“That’s a fun name.” Excuse me? That simple comment reminded me of when girls condescendingly said things like “that’s a fun dress,” when what they really meant to say was “that’s the most hideous dress I’ve ever seen and your boobs look lopsided in it.”

Crisis back on.

Barb surveyed the scene at the cash register, which for the moment was free of any customers. “So hey, how about a cup of coffee?”

A token of friendship? Crisis defeated!

I looked around the impossibly small aisles. “There’s a coffee shop in here too?!”

She shook her head and patted me on the shoulder. “You have so much to learn about Paris.”

I followed her down the aisle until she stopped abruptly, causing me to nearly crash right into her. She lifted up a section of a bookcase, and somehow, impossibly...there was a small kitchen sink underneath it, with a shelf right above stacked with teacups, a coffeemaker and…maple syrup. I felt like I was in that cartoon where the bears have a fully-functional home inside a tree. She poured me a cup of black coffee. “Milk or maple syrup?”

I had to laugh. “Are they interchangeable?”

“No, but milk makes it taste like coffee, and maple syrup makes it taste like…”

“Okay now I’m just too curious; maple syrup, please.”

She added a dollop of syrup to my cup and stirred it around. I waited a few seconds for it to cool, and when I took the first sip it was like…nothing I’d ever had before.

“How does it taste?” she said. “I always love to make people explain how it tastes.”

I took another sip and made a pretentious face, trying to resemble a wine connoisseur. “It’s not too sweet, in the way that dark chocolate is not too sweet, but it doesn’t taste like dark chocolate either. It tastes like...caramel…but only if caramel wasn’t too sweet.”

I had no idea what I was talking about, but was met with a smile of approval.

“That’s the best answer I’ve gotten yet. So tell me, are you sticking around here for a while?”

I smiled. “Actually yes. This is day two, but I’m living in Paris for a year.” Every time I said it aloud, it felt like I was describing someone else’s life. I wondered how long it would take for this biggest of fantasies to take on a realistic quality.

“I meant are you sticking around the bookshop for a while...as in today.” She winked.

“Oh...” My brain flooded over with incomplete errands and schedules. “Well I still need some serious groceries, and I’m not even finished unpacking. So...” My carefree stride was gone and I was back to being a Canadian.

“No, no, you’ll stick around. We’re having cider outside the shop in a bit, along with some bread, some cheese... ” Carbs!

“Who else will be attending?” And will they think I’m weird and lacking in Parisian sensibilities?

“Just myself and a few friends. And Carter if he finishes up the inventory in the basement.” She shook her head like she was describing a lazy teenager. “Have you even seen the basement yet?”

I leaned against the nearby railing, and spied what looked like a medieval cave full of books.

Where the hell am I?

“No, but I think I need to check that out right now.”

I had to duck my head to avoid hitting the low ceiling, but once I reached the bottom and looked ahead of me, I was surrounded. The stony walls looked like they’d been carved out just for this space, and books...so many books. The glowing yellow lights guided me along, through sections on French history, Russian politics, and shelves full of books on every major philosopher. I turned the corner for the section on Descartes, and bumped right into the back of some dude.

“Sorry,” I said.

He turned around and I was standing face-to-face with a tall, hazel-eyed guy. His messy brown hair, old T-shirt and torn-up jeans made him seem a bit boyish. Otherwise he was quite the strapping young man. But how young exactly was hard to tell.

“Hey, I’m Carter,” he said, in an accent that was noticeably American. It reminded me of a toned-down version of Matt Damon in “Good Will Hunting.”

“Hi I’m Romi. So you’re the one who works here!”

He gestured to the pricing gun in his hand. “Are you a detective by profession?”

I frowned. “Calm down, Mr. Sarcasm, that’s MY job.”

His face spread out in a gleaming smile, with perfect white teeth on display. “Why is sarcasm your job? Are you a comedian?”

“No but I’m a Canadian, which almost sounds the same.”

“Whoa, easy there, Canadians and comedians are not interchangeable.”

“But Canada has way more talented comedians per capita than the US.”

“How do you know I’m American?”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s all about the accent, and yours is way different than mine.”

He laughed. “It’s all ‘a-boot’ the accent. You’re right, Canadians sound hilarious.”

I scowled. “That is not how I said ‘about’ and you know it.”

“That’s weird, because I’m pretty sure you just did it again. Anyway, I better get back to work.” He clicked his pricing gun onto my arm and the next thing I knew I was wearing a one-euro sticker. “Oh wow, you’re on sale this week.”

“Really? One euro?” I ripped off the sticker and flicked it towards him. “I am not for sale, homeboy.” I grabbed a book on Descartes and sauntered back up the stairs.

Weirdo.

***

Living around the corner from a bookshop would prove to have its advantages, and this time it came in the form of a bathroom break at my nearby apartment, along with the chance to fix up my hair before heading back down to the shop.

When I made my return, the scene in front of the bookshop was very different. The Canadian flag was still there, swaying elegantly in the wind, but the storefront was now accompanied by a table and four people enjoying glasses of French cider. Carter and Barb were there, along with a middle-aged man and woman I’d never seen before.

It was great to be on a pedestrian street with no worry of getting hit by a car, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t get hit by people. I learned this when I almost collided with a dark and mysterious man.

“Pardon!” he said in a smooth French accent. He wore a waiters’ apron and had come from the restaurant across the street. I smiled and ended up following him right to the shop. “Ah, you are joining us?” he added, gesturing to the table as he held up a bottle of wine.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I think so...”

“That’s right Arna,” said Carter. “We’ve got some fresh meat tonight.”

I scowled. “Wow, way to sound like a serial killer.” For some reason, the insult didn’t faze Carter’s all-American smile.

Arna introduced himself as an Iranian who’d moved to Paris sixteen years ago; the couple at the table were friends of Barb visiting from Canada.

“My restaurant has the best fondue in France! And now, I present you with a fine bottle of Bordeaux.” He showed off the bottle while everyone nodded with approval.

Free cider and wine made this bookshop seem like the best place ever, while the mention of fondue made me drool. “I love fondue,” I said. “I’ll have to try yours sometime!” Barb suddenly shook her head “no,” with an expression of disgust that convinced me it was terrible fondue. I tried not to laugh.

Pretty soon I was deep into the cider and explaining my move to Paris, along with my history as an independent author.

With no surprise, the only American at the table just had to pipe up first. “So...you’re in Paris, to write a book about some European guy that screwed you over in...New York? Couldn’t you have done that back home?”

My only response was a death stare.

“Now, now,” said Barb, “I’m sure she’s heard enough of that from her parents.”

“No it’s fine,” I said. “He doesn’t understand the system.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh sorry, what’s the system?”

I cleared my throat. “Well...my first book took place over the course of a year. And the second book follows the character for another year. Or...maybe a year and four months. Whatever.” He rolled his eyes again. “Anyway, the second book is a little more intense, so removing myself from the scene of the action will help me become more...objective.”

He scoffed. “What does being objective have to do with art? Shouldn’t you just write what you feel?”

I ignored him. “And being in Paris is an extra bonus, because everything that happens here will inspire the eventual third book!” I smiled, trying to convince myself that everything made sense and I hadn’t come to Paris to run away from emotional baggage.

“Okay...he started. “So here’s the all-important question: will I be a character in the book you write about Paris?” He puffed up his chest, which made it clear that his ego was in charge.

“Actually, I try really hard not to have any boring characters.”

It suddenly occurred to me that Carter and I had blocked out the whole table with our own little hate-on-hate chat. The married couple, Barb, and Arna all looked on with anticipation, wondering what we’d say next. “And what about you,” I added. “What are you doing in Paris?”

He stretched his muscular arms over his head, a move that was impossible not to notice. “I just couldn’t keep going on with the corporate thing; it didn’t feel like I was doing anything useful.”

I smiled. “Okay, that’s one thing we have in common.”

“Now I’m just working, soaking up Paris, writing some poems and short stories...just trying to figure things out.”

Carter was becoming more interesting by the second, until, to my surprise, Barb rolled her eyes so hard, they practically got lost behind her head. “Don’t let him fool you honey, it’s not like he’s been toiling away like a working man for years and years; he’s just a baby!”

Wait...what?

“Hold on,” I said. “How old are you?”

“Why do people always go there? Why is age so important?”

I snorted. “That’s what teenagers or eighty-year-olds say.”

The East coast couple laughed.

“He’s twenty-three,” Barb said. “Just a baby.”

Oh...and shit.

I suddenly realized I was talking to a man-child, and the more I looked at him, the more my thirty-one-year-old uterus started feeling all shrivelled-up. I hadn’t specifically come to Paris to fall in love, but if there was any chance of finding romance abroad, it wasn’t going to be with a twenty-three-year-old.

I took a long sip of cider and smiled at the Canadian couple. “So tell me, how do you guys like Paris so far?”

From that point on Carter was invisible to me. He was only a boy, and an American boy no less! I hadn’t come to Paris to meet an American for god’s sake; I’d come here to get a little taste of Parisian romance, with one of those romantic French men I’d always heard so much about. And that was exactly what I intended to do (on an optional basis, of course)...