Page 8 of Blue Eyes & Paris Vibes

“Well,” I pull my shirt over my head, “in exchange, you can eat whatever you want,” I point out, trying to locate my shoes. That’s what I get for just toeing them off. “You can do whatever sports you want. You can get tattoos, piercings—” Ah, there they are.

“Yes, yes, I got it,” he interrupts, but I can tell he just thinks I’m whiny.

“But I’m not finished. You don’t have to count every calorie, every macro, to keep your body healthy, yet slim enough for suits like these.” I gesture toward the one I was just wearing. “And you don’t need to jet halfway across the world for every other job on a twenty minute notice. Trust me,” I add with a yawn as I finally find my shoes and slip them on, “it’s not glamorous. You’ve worked the scene for a while, I thought you knew that.”

“Yeah, I do,” he admits with a sigh and hands me my own jacket. “You know me. I just love complaining. You’re just taking it too seriously because you’re basically a zombie at this point and too tired to joke around. Come on. The other models can wait a minute while I get you a taxi.”

“You are heaven-sent,” I tell him between two yawns. “Seriously, your guy can count himself lucky.”

“Let’s get you to your hotel,” he says gently like he’s talking to a dog, leading me through the labyrinth that is a fashion show backstage and to the exit where, thankfully, a bunch of taxis are already waiting.

“See you when I see you,” I say sluggishly and make a weak salute his way.

“Sleep well, Reed.” He laughs and closes the door behind me. I tell the driver my hotel's address and lean my head back, determined to stay awake until we arrive.

Can’t believe it’s finally done. Now, my bed is calling and I have every intention of answering.

Abby

Imighthaveunderestimatedthe distances in Paris. Or maybe I’m just really bad at reading maps or trusting the walking distances my phone shows, convinced I’ll be quicker than the estimated time.

And now I’m reaping the rewards of my distrust. My feet hurt as I walk alongside the Seine, back to my hotel, and I’m pretty sure I feel at least two blisters forming.

In a rather spontaneous decision, I’d taken the metro to Notre Dame as first order of business here in Paris. After all, it’s one of the main sights, the place of my childhood nightmares after watchingThe Hunchback Of Notre Dame.

On my way out, I caught André’s eye and stopped for a quick chat. I couldn’t help myself. I was too curious about what happened once the elevator doors closed behind me.

“There were no more further incidents,” he told me with a grin. “On behalf of Julia and myself, thank you for your patience.” Julia nodded gratefully when he said it. She still looked a bit shaken up but a lot better than when I left.

André doesn’t get into more details of what happened, only insinuates that Mr. Rude admitted defeat once I was gone. Fair enough. That just means I can imagine him walking to the elevator full of defeat, his handsome head facing the ground, putting his feet in front of each other slowly, like a puppy you’ve denied a treat and is now trying to guilt-trip you.

And damned if that thought doesn’t fill me with warmth.

I wonder what was up with the guy. I understand getting frustrated when a hotel room doesn’t work out, but I don’t get what kind of satisfaction someone gets from belittling the only people who can actually find a solution for that. Shame. If he hadn’t behaved like a dick, he would have been just my type. Tall, dark hair, handsome and those dreamy blue eyes I could get lost in.

Calm down, Abby. His eyes are not dreamy and he’s a dick. Focus on what’s in front of you.

There is not much to see of Notre Dame since it’s still in the middle of its restoration, a tall fence preventing tourists from getting close. But even from a distance I can see some intricate carvings on the outside, and I’m sure the interior must have been stunning before the fire.

Now I can only stare at the facade and the few intricate sculptures and carvings I can make out and the giant scaffolding gracing its backside.

Max told me to check out the streets around Notre-Dame, and I have to admit—he was right. The neighborhood is really cute. There are cobblestone streets, little cafés, and old buildings with flowers in the windows.

Artists sit along the sidewalks showing their work, and some are even painting or drawing while people watch. A few offer to make custom art, right there on the spot, which is just mind-blowing to me. Like, what do you mean I could have a custom painting or sketch, just like that?

And naive as I am, I decided to walk all the way back to my hotel. ‘It’s along the river. It’s going to be beautiful,’ I thought. ‘You can have a look at the Louvre, Jardin des Tuileries and Place de la Concorde on your way,’ I thought.

Well, I failed to think about taking sunscreen along. Or sunglasses. Or about the fact that I got my shoes specifically for this vacation and they are not quite broken in yet. Now I’ve just walked past Jardin des Tuileries, feet aching, and I still have halfway to go.

But at least I know where I need to queue tomorrow when I have my slot to enter the Louvre. Admittedly, the glass pyramid was hard to miss, but I wondered if there was an entrance that’s not by the pyramid, one that would be less crowded tomorrow. No such luck though, or maybe I focused too much on my pain to see it.

Walking through the gardens, I couldn’t decide whether to keep going or sit down and hope the pain subsides. Ultimately, I feared that once I sat down, I might just not get up again so I decided to power through.

They are so pretty though. The Eiffel tower looming in the distance, at some spots framed by flowers in all kinds of colors. If Mom were here, that would definitely become her new profile picture.

I think I’m starting to get it, why Max likes to come here so often and why so many people call Paris the ‘city of love’. Because love is really in the air. Everywhere. It’s in the care put into the gardens. I can see it in all the couples who walk through the park hand in hand or arm in arm, the way they sit next and on each other on the benches that face fountains that look like they’re right out of a fairytale.

So many people are stretched out on the grass, enjoying the sunny afternoon. I walk past a couple having a quiet picnic. The woman rests her head on her boyfriend’s stomach, both of them lying on their picnic blanket, books open on their chests. Their fingers move to turn the pages every now and then. A pair of glass bottles sit on the corner of their soft blanket, catching the sunlight. It’s such a calm, sweet moment, one that makes me understand why so many artists live here. It looks like a scene from a painting.

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