Page 64 of Host for the Holidays
“Anyway,” she says, “these days, the only people smiling at my photos are rich executives.” Her nose wrinkles. “Scratch that. They probably don’t even see them. As long as the money is coming in, they couldn’t care less, I’m sure. The point is my childhood vision kind of got pushed to the side in the pressure of making a living.”
“Can’t you make a living doing what you just did? You were amazing, Madi. Really.”
Her smile is grateful but rueful. “Thanks. I’ve tried, though. Believe me. But I just can’t seem to get things off the ground the way I need to in order for it to be an actual career. It’s hard to really stand out in portrait photography these days because the market is so flooded. So when Josh told me I should get into product photography, I saw it as an opportunity to keep shooting, even if it isn’t my passion.”
We come to a stop right in front of the metro station, where people are filtering up and down the stairs.
Madi turns to me. “Now that digital marketing is so huge, there’s an even bigger need for really good product images. I thought if I could get hired on at an actual company, I would have some stability.” Her gaze moves to the people, but her eyes have a hazy look, like she’s not really seeing them. “But what really happened is I spent the weeks before coming here renting product photography equipment to build a portfolio for a meeting that never happened.”
I really wish I could help Madi right now, that I could give her exactly what she wants. But I’m just her Airbnb host, and I know nothing about photography. “Maybe things will still work out with Josh’s company.”
Her eyes flit to me. “I don’t think so. But it’s okay. I promised myself if it didn’t work out, I’d accept that photography as a job just isn’t meant to be for me. When I get home, I’m gonna look for something else. I can always do photography on the side.” She smiles—her way of trying to lighten what I’m sure is killing her inside. “Anyway, shall we descend into the dark abyss?”
I hesitate for a second, and my palms start sweating. In near-freezing weather. I’m a modern medical marvel. “How would you feel about walking home?” I’m basically sprinting at that glass door right now.
She looks at me for a second. “Oh, I dunno.” She makes a disappointed expression that’s way too dramatic to be believable. “You know how much I love a crowded metro, Rémy.”
“Oh,” I say, unable to refuse the opportunity she’s giving me. “Well, in that case . . .” I start heading for the stairs.
Madi grabs me by the arm. “Wait, no!”
I delay turning to face her while I try to get rid of the smile on my face, but it’s like trying to wipe permanent marker from a whiteboard.
She shoots me a look that’s trying hard to be annoyed and unamused by my teasing.
“You sure you’re up for walking? It’s over an hour from here. It would only take twenty minutes on the train.” Remind me why I’m trying to convince her to take the metro? Walking wasmyidea.
“I’d rather see more of the city.”
AndI’drather see more of Madi, so off we go.
Most of the year, it’s easy to forget I live in a city people spend thousands of dollars to come see, a place that’s been a Mecca of sorts for hundreds of years. But during the holidays, I’ve gotta admit, Paris is something else. It’s called the City of Love, yes, but its real nickname is the City of Lights, and at no time of year are there more bright, glowing bulbs than in December.
We make our way past Les Invalides and the Rodin Museum because I think Madi will enjoy walking along the Seine most. The river reflects all the light like a mirror, making the views all the more impressive.
We get stopped to give directions to a couple of Italian tourists at one point, and I do my best to help them with the little Italian I remember from my high school days. It’s not pretty, but after they’ve thanked me and continued on their way—incidentally theoppositedirection than the one they had been heading in—Madi’s staring at me.
“What?” I ask as we start walking again.
“You speak Italian too?”
“Obviously not very well.”
“Rémy, I know the look on people’s faces when they don’t understand what someone is saying to them. Trust me. Icreatedthat face. They totally understood you, which means you speak Italian.”
I shake my head. “I really don’t. I have a very basic grasp of it.”
“Like you have avery basic graspof English?”
“No. I wouldn’t describe my English abilities like that.”
“Good, because I forget 99% of the time that it isn’t your native language.” She’s looking out over the river toward Place de la Concorde. It stands at the bottom of the Champs-Elysées, which is always decked out for the holidays.
Her head turns toward me, a curious look in her eyes. “How do you do it? Most of the time when people speak English to me here, it takes me a second to realize theyarespeaking my language because their accent makes it sound so much like French. But it’s like Laura said back there—you sound like an American.”
I can’t help feeling a little swell of pride to hear her say that. “Alotof work. A lot of time. A lot of American TV, books, and movies. It’s kind of been an obsession. An unhealthy one, even.”
“Oh riiiight,” she says, looking up at me with a twinkle in her eye. “Your whole America obsession.”
