Page 1 of All My Love
1
Elizabeth
I holdup my phone to see the photo of the Siene River I’ve had as my lock screen for the past six months. The scene stretches out before me and I imagine myself inside the picture - the shimmering surface of the river, the metal gate along the edge of the bridge, and all of the locks that lovers have clipped there. Everything feels vast and beautiful, and I am more than just giddy. The unique swirl of nostalgia and excitement wrap around my heart, and I put my phone in my lap to unveil the true scene beforeme.
I’m in Paris. I’m actually in Paris. A place I’ve wanted to visit since I was a little girl, and I’ve only had to wait twenty-one years to do it. Not everyone gets to visit the place they’ve pined for all their life, but I’m lucky, which means I have to do my best to document everything in as much detail as I can so I can post it to my blog. The blog is as much for me as it is for my readers. In fact, if I didn’t have even one reader, I would still do the blog formyself.
I close my eyes and breathe in the fresh, warm spring air. A breeze tangles through my new blunt bob haircut. I wiggle my toes inside my boots, trying to get every detail to seep into my pores. My mom always loved Paris and I think I got the bug from her. It’s been my dream to visit since I popped out of her, and my first memory is of our family dog, Lucky’s Eiffel Tower squeaky toy, and how I always stole it to put it with my toys instead of his. Everyone in my family has Paris encoded in their DNA, including thedog.
I let my eyelids flutter open again as I slip my phone into my pocket and grab my warm chocolate croissant from its little paper bag. I take a sip of my hot chocolate and savor it as it hits every one of my tastebuds. Next, a corner of the croissant crunches between my teeth and I bite down, the flaky, buttery layers falling like snowflakes on mytongue.
This is all going in theblog.
My blog, “All My Love,” is my baby, and I named it that because it really is a labor of love. It’s a kind of travel blog, but until now I’ve only written about places in New York City. There are so many hidden gems to unearth there. My course of study at NYU lets me design a unique major for myself. I’m interested in social media and its relationship to traditional journalism, so while I write for the university newspaper, I also have my blog. The blog is just a hobby at this point despite the crazy hours I put into it, kind of an extra-curricular activity to compliment my course of study, but the dream, as is with all hobby bloggers, is to monetize it. That would be the icing on the cake. I’d do the blog even with no eyes on it, but if I could get paid to do what I love, then well…I’d lovethat.
It’s my parents’ dream to visit Paris again. It’s where they went on their honeymoon, and long before they ran into some financial difficulties. I felt guilty when they gifted me this spring break trip for my twenty-first birthday, but they made me promise that some day we’d all go together. When I get my first real job in the real world and have some money of my own, I will get them tickets to Paris the first Christmas that Ican.
It’s why I’m taking enough credits to have a second major, in accounting. I need to have a plan for something that could actually make me money. I know the blog is a one-in-a million shot, but you have to play to win, so I’m taking my playing veryseriously.
I reach into my pocket to take some notes, but I’m torn between wanting to just sit here and let the scene play out before me and writing it down. I take it all in: old couples walking leisurely, kids with skateboards being scolded by the older couples, the soft lapping of the river. Sometimes I think you can remember things better when you just let them happen, instead of trying to document every little detail, so I decide to split the difference. I’ll document the big things, like the sights and sounds. The little things, like how there’s a butterfly on one of the locks on the bridge, or how my heart is pounding with so much gratitude, those I’ll keep formyself.
I’m on a tight budget and covering my hotel and daily expenses myself with the money I’ve saved up for a rainy day, so I’m tracking everything I spend by hand, pen and paper, the old way. Oh, I can turn that into a blog post. I go into my purse to grab my wallet, where I have the carefully-folded piece of graph paper where I’m tracking my expenses, but when I flip it open, my heart sinks and a cold flush breaks through my limbs. My debit card isn’t where it should be. I go through the other slots of my wallet and empty the contents of my purse into my lap, but my debit card is nowhere to befound.
I swallow thickly, my eyes pressing red against the corners. I haven’t checked into my hotel yet because I wanted to get started with my trip right away, and if I call my parents to let them know what’s going on it will needlessly worry them. I’m going to have to call the bank to put a freeze on my account, but what the hell am I going to do in themeantime?
I have an answer. I could always call Ben. He would help me out. I don’t know how he’s going to help me, but I know he would. Plus…he did tell me to call him any time I needed him, and if I happened to be in town. I think he was partly joking and never thought I’d take him up on it, but hell…I’m goingto.
