Page 113 of Host for the Holidays
But today is different. As of now, I’m officially a French long-stay visa holder. Rémy thinks I’m just coming for another three-month stint like the last time. Ninety days is as long as I can stay in a six-month period as a tourist, so Rémy and I have traded off spending time in France and the States. I did three months in the spring; he spent his summer holidays with me. Now it’s my turn again. But this time, I’m back for a year, at least.
Siena scoffs. “Who cares whether the sailing is smooth? You’ve got the hottest co-captain to hold onto, and you’re ‘sailing’”—she does air quotes—“on the equivalent of a yacht.”
“The yacht being . . .”
“Paris. Duh.” She pulls out her phone and freezes. “Oh my gosh! Can we make a quick stop?”
“Do you need the bathroom? It can be tough to find one in the city, Siena—at least one you’ll feel comfortable using. Can you wait—"
She brushes my words aside. “No. It’s not the bathroom. There’s this street I saw on a Pinterest post, and we’re right by it, and Ireallywanna get a picture there.”
“Siena. We have all week to see Paris. I’ll bring you back here tomorrow.”
“Please, Madi! Rémy isn’t even gonna be home for another three hours. What’s the rush?”
“Well, we have FIVE huge suitcases to get up to his apartment.” Rémy found a place back in March right by Lycée Michel Gontier, and, like any good French apartment, it’s up on the highest floor. It also has a lovely birdcage elevator not unlike the one from André’s apartment. It’s really grown on me. Nostalgia and all that. But it’s broken twice while we’ve been in it.
We managed just fine.
Anyway, I actually tried to book André’s apartment for Siena’s visit, but the place is booked out for months, which makes me pretty dang happy. André is living with his mom now since her cancer is in remission, so he’s renting out both rooms.
“I will carry all five of the suitcases myself,” Siena promises. “Just this quick stop?”
I sigh. I get it—the excitement of being in Paris and wanting to experience it immediately. Heck,I’mfeeling it myself.
I scoot to the edge of my seat and talk to the driver in French, doing my best to explain what we’re requesting. I’ve been taking French lessons from an amazing tutor (Rémy), and, while I’ve still got a ton of work, I’ve made a lot of progress. Staying with Rémy’s mom during the spring sure didn’t hurt, either. She takes my goal of learning French so seriously that she hasn’t spoken a word to me in anything but French in months. It’s freaking hard, but it’s pushed me to learn faster than I otherwise would have.
Siena hands me her phone, and I convey the address to the driver, then sit back in my seat and shake my head. “You’re lucky I love you so much. This taxi ride is going to cost a small fortune.” It was really the only option if we wanted to fit all of our luggage, though. Moving to a different country requires a lot of bags. And Siena isn’t the lightest traveler, either.
“I thought you said we were right by the place,” I say after we’ve been driving for a few minutes.
“I mean, weare. Much closer than we were back at home.”
I shoot her an unamused look. “By that logic, we should be asking the driver to take us to Rome.”
Siena looks mildly intrigued. “Think he would?”
She’s ridiculous.
The taxi driver pulls over to the curb on a street in the 19th arrondissement. It’s lined on one side by the Haussmannian buildings that make Parisian architecture so recognizable, and on the other side, there’s a long, green iron fence that extends the length of the street. What lies beyond it isn’t visible, as trees just beginning to change yellow and orange block the view.
I recognize one of the signs by the nearest entrance gate, though. Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. I smile. Siena has good taste in location; this is one of the happiest places in Paris for me. It’s where Rémy and I came on New Year’s Day when we decided I would come back for the spring.
Siena asks me to tell the driver to wait for us, which I do, assuring him we will be back soon and will pay him well for his time. I’m not trying to have him drive off with everything I own in the back of his car. I’d rather not make a habit of getting scammed by Parisian taxi drivers, but this guy seems nice.
“You realize this park is huge, right?” I say to Siena. “Do you know where you’re going?”
But she’s got her phone out as she leads the way into the park, confident in her steps. This girl does her research. “It’s close.”
“Close like Rome close?”
We walk for a minute, then round a familiar bend and stop.
“This is it,” Siena says loudly enough for everyone in the park to know she’s here and she’s American. But I don’t even care that she’s being embarrassing.
“Seriously?” This is the exact spot Rémy brought me that freezing day in January. It’s just off the main park path, but it feels like a different world: a waterfall pouring into a stream, lined on either side by stone paths. A peaceful oasis in the city.
“This is it,” Siena repeats, even louder this time. If there were anyone in sight, I would definitely be shushing her right now, but mostly I just want to know why she’s acting so weird.
