Page 2 of Host for the Holidays
I smile. Good thing Josh is the one paying for this place. He felt so bad the hotel he’s staying in was booked full, so he must have sprung for a ritzy rental for me. Having a kitchen works better for me, anyway. I can’t afford to be eating out every meal.
I smile at the taxi driver and open my door despite not being sure where exactly I’m supposed to go. A blast of freezing air reminds me again that it’s December, and I’m not in California anymore. Also, my real coat is in my bag that, according to the lady at the airport, is apparently in Morocco on its own vacation.
The driver steps out of the car, rolls his shoulders, lights a cigarette—priorities, people—then pops the trunk. He hefts my suitcase out and looks at me. “One hundred euros.”
TWO
MADI
My stomach plummets. “One hundred?”I figured I’d be paying a third of that, tops. Maybe I should have done more research? Or maybe I shouldn’t have made it so obvious that I’m new to this travel gig.
He nods, pulling out the cigarette in his mouth and blowing a puff of smoke straight at me. With his other hand, he keeps hold of the suitcase handle like my carry-on is full of cocaine and he’s not handing it over until I show him the dough. I want to fight him on this, but that taxi trunk looks mighty roomy, and, as much as I love Josh, he is no Liam Neeson.
I pull the credit card out of my purse, my stomach twisting in knots, and hand it over to him, wondering how close to my credit limit this will put me. Little known fact: credit card companies don’t love giving credit to people with unstable jobs. I can’t really blame them.
The driver runs the card in a handheld machine, waits, then shakes his head.
“Declined?” I squeak.
“Declined,” he says, imitating my accent in a way I find entirely unnecessary. Do I really sound like that?
“Can you try it again?” I ask.
He barely suppresses an eye roll, then swipes it again. “Declined,” he says in that same attempted American accent.
I take the card back and rifle through my purse, pulling out the precious euros I got at the bank and choosing two fifties. I hand them to him, hoping it’s not evident by my face that I’m not at all accustomed to throwing this much money around for a car ride.
He releases my hostage carry-on and, euros in hand, gets in the car with his glowing cigarette, slamming the door and zooming off faster than I can say a weakMerci.
I try to shake off the dent just put into my already tight budget. Since graduation a couple years ago, I’ve been living from paycheck to paycheck, hoping that business will pick up at some point. Turns out, majoring in photography does not guarantee you’ll become the next Annie Liebowitz. Go figure.
I’m hoping to put those days behind me, though. Josh has promised to put me in touch with the director of marketing at his company, Dan Vincent. This could be huge for my career. And byhuge for my career, I mean it could actuallybea career, which my current situation does not at all qualify as. This is a sort of last shot I’m giving my dream before surrendering and getting a desk job.
Product photography might not be exactly what I was hoping to do when I set out, but this is the real world. I can either starve while pursuing my passion of portrait photography, or I can do a Ross Geller-worthy pivot to a different type of photography and eat three square meals. Compromises must be made; pivots must be embraced.
Blowing air into my freezing hands, I turn to the building next to me. It has a big, blue number five over the massive set of doors. Yesterday, Josh sent me screenshots of the check-in instructions in case my internet didn’t work. He’s the one who booked the Airbnb, since I didn’t have the app or any guest review history. Checking his messages, I verify that it’s the right building, then read the instructions the host sent him. Apparently, a neighbor will be giving me the keys.
There’s a big pad of buttons next to the door, and I follow the instructions and press the bottom one. After a bit of ringing, someone answers over the microphone in French.
I wince. Anyone who thinks you need to speak the same language as someone to understand what they’re saying is full of it. The guy answering is irritated in all languages.
“Um,” I say, dusting the cobwebs off my high school French, “Bonjour. Je m’appelle—”
Beep.A loud click follows the beep. It sounds like it came from the door, but I have no idea what it means. Did he just deadbolt it to keep me from getting in?
“Hello?” I say into the microphone on the button pad. Dead silence.
I hesitate, wondering if I should press the button again, but I don’t really feel like being yelled at, even if I have no idea what’s being said—my mind is all too ready to fill in the blanks. Instead, I give the door a little push, and, miraculously, it gives way.
I step through, yanking my bag over the door ledge and pulling it along through the dark archway. My suitcase wheels make a racket, but since it’s cobblestone, the sound has a bit of charm to it. At least, that’s what I tell myself as my hand vibrates like I’m shooting a machine gun.
I emerge into a courtyard and look around. My heart soars, floating upwards like Mary Poppins with her umbrella. Cream stone walls rise above me on all sides, punctuated by white-framed, curtained windows, green potted plants, and a few festive wreaths. My hands itch to take out my camera because I’m surrounded by the essence of Paris. At least, as much as one can know the essence of Paris after a smoky taxi ride from the airport.
My mouth stretches in a gleeful grin, and all my travel troubles are immediately forgotten. I get to stay here—in this beautiful, swanky building—for almost three weeks!
“Excusez-moi.”
I whirl around and find a middle-aged man walking toward me. He starts going off in a language I’m positive is not French, because it sounds nothing like what I learned in high school. He’s definitely not telling me he likes to play soccer or asking me where the library is.
