Page 1 of Host for the Holidays
ONE
MADI
Just addedto the tippity top of the List of Utterly and Completely Worthless Things: getting an “A” in every term of high school French.Je m’appelle MadiandComment allez-vous?just aren’t cutting it as I speak with the employee at the lost luggage office in the Paris airport.
Would it have been so hard for Madame Wilson to teach us something useful like, “Hey, I’ve watched that carrousel spin around more times than a teacup at Disneyland, and my perfectly packed bag is nowhere to be seen”? Not once has this woman asked me a question that would necessitate an answer like, “I like to play soccer.” I probably should have listened to my friend Siena and downloaded one of those language learning apps for a refresher before leaving home.
Having said that, I strongly suspect this woman speaks perfectly good English, but she’s purposely trying to make it hard for me. Admittedly, making it hard for me is pretty easy at the moment. I just escaped eleven hours in a tight space with a herd of strangers, hovering miles above solid ground. Everything about that is contrary to my natural habitat.
After fifteen minutes, I walk away with an assurance that my bags will be delivered to my vacation rental when they arrive at the airport, though when that will be, I have no idea. Thankfully, the taxi driver who approaches me just outside seems a bit less inclined to hate me than the lost luggage lady. Thank heaven for that, since it’s negative seven hundred degrees outside, and my oversized cardigan and leggings have not equipped me for December in Paris.
The driver looks at the address of the Airbnb my boyfriend, Josh, booked for me and tells me in a thick French accent that it will be no problem to get me there. Grunting a bit under the weight, he chucks my carry-on into his trunk and opens the door for me to get in.
I sit down on the leather seat and take in a breath full of the gloriously heated air. It also happens to be saturated with cigarette smoke, and I try to stifle a cough. Siena warned me that the French still smoke like it’s the 1960s.
She also warned me that French men are flirtatious—sometimes aggressively so. My taxi driver does not seem to fit that second stereotype, however, unless communicating in grunts is considered “aggressive flirtation” here. Either way, I’m not complaining. In the lead-up to this trip, I heard enough jokes aboutTakento last me a lifetime.
I set my backpack full of camera gear next to me, clenching my hand around the strap as I realize how fortunate it is thatthisdidn’t get lost. Not only is it thousands of dollars of equipment, it’s my passport into the future. The hopeful future, at least.
I pull out my phone from the bag’s side pocket. It’s still super early morning back home, but I promised Siena I’d text her when I arrived.
Madi:I made it!!! I’m actually in Paris! Hope you’re sleeping cuz at least that’ll make one of us. *GIF of woman propping open her eyelids with paperclips*
I cringe thinking of how much an international phone plan is costing me for these two and a half weeks in Paris, but when I told Siena I wasn’t going to get one at all, she insisted, offering to pay for it herself.
“I can’t be cut off from my other half for three weeks,” she said. “I need to know the second you have the ring on your finger.”
Don’t be fooled. Siena’s not crazy about my boyfriend (slight understatement). But she tries to be supportive, andItry to believe her icy heart will melt once Josh proves he’s taking things to the next level with some hard evidence. Nothing is harder than diamond, right?
My mom and my brother, Jack, will embrace him with open arms at that point, too. I’m counting on it.
Okay, so Jack is more likely to embrace Josh’s face with an open fist. Hereallydoesn’t like Josh. Protective Older Brother Syndrome and all that nonsense. But since Jack has a history of dating and discarding my friends, who then discardme, I don’t lose too much sleep over his opinion.
I glance down at my ring finger with a little hiccup of nerves—or maybe that’s just the airplane food making itself heard. All I know is that this finger has been bare as a baby’s bottom my entire life, and it finally looks like that might change. In Paris, of all places!
When he invited me to tag along on this business trip, Josh hinted pretty heavily at a perfect Paris proposal (see how amazingly alliterative that is?). I’m trying to balance my hope for that long-awaited event against the othertimes I’ve let my expectations get away from me, only to be disappointed. A woman’s heart has only so many cracks and crevices to cram those kinds of experiences in before all of it pops out like a package of Pillsbury biscuits (those things are terrifying).
But Josh has had a really crazy year at work, and I know from past experience that he can pull through when it counts. So even though I got to a point last month where I was ready to go our separate ways, he helped remind me of all we’ve done and experienced together over the past two years—and convinced me that there was no place better than Paris to recharge us and start fresh. Not that I needed much convincing to do Christmas in the City of Love.
I swipe to unlock my screen and go to my recent calls, tapping onJosh-wah. No, he doesn’t really spell it like that, but it’s the nickname for him I stole from Rachel onFriends.His phone rings a few times and goes to voicemail.
I’m used to it. Josh can be tricky to get a hold of—like I said, he’s a busy guy—but healwayscalls me back. His flight got in earlier this morning, so he’s probably sleeping. The thought makes my eyes droop a bit with jetlagged jealousy.
Or maybe he’snotsleeping. This is a work trip for him, so he flew on the company dime. Business class. I saw what that section of the plane looks like. The seats are like the Batmobiles of chairs, transforming into a luscious sleep space where you can extend your leg until your knee actually straightens. Magic.
“Hey!” I say to the machine. “It’s me! I made it! I’m in a taxi on my way to the Airbnb right now. Took a while since the airline lost my luggage. I may have to borrow some clothes from you. Anyway, thank you so much for taking care of the Airbnb for me. Honestly, I can’t wait to climb in bed and take a nap, but I’ll keep my phone ringer volume up in case you call.”
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror, and my eyes balloon. Maybe a shower first. No wonder the woman at lost luggage kept looking at my hair. It looks like I put it in a ponytail then stuck it in a greasy tumble dryer.
I run my free hand through it to try to calm the mess a bit.
“Anyway,” I say, “call me when you get this! Can’t wait to see you. In Paris!” I barely smother a squeal. The glance the taxi driver sends at me through the rearview mirror tells me I’m as basic as tourists come.
The traffic in this city is like nothing I’ve ever seen, but the movie-worthy building façades lining the busy streets offer plenty of distraction from the many near-fender benders. I’m wishing I had those paperclips from the GIF I sent Siena, because blinking is my worst enemy. You might think black, wrought-iron balconies, creamy buildings, and gray rooftops would get old after a while, but you’d be wrong. Add in the Christmas lights and the wreaths and garlands hanging up all over the city, and . . .contented sigh.
Finally, the taxi turns onto a one-way street and stops about halfway down. The driver slings his arm over the seatback to look at me. “This is it,” he says in that thick accent.
I’m not entirely sure whatthisis, since we’re surrounded by tall buildings, and the only doors I can see are massive, arched ones that look like the entrance to places well out of my price range.
