As I walk through a hip neighborhood called the Marais, according to the map on my phone, I notice a sea of red awnings above the rows of sidewalk cafés; the narrow, winding cobblestoned streets; the pristine cream-colored buildings; and the antique signs above the shops.
I feel like I’ve stepped back in time. It’s the Paris of the movies, the one I’ve been dreaming of ever since I knew I would be coming here. There’s street art painted on the side of a building of a mother and daughter holding hands, a reminder that I still haven’t spoken to mine. I pop in my headphones and call my family’s landline. My brother, Thomas, picks up after a few rings.
“It’s me,” I say, stepping onto a tiny side street to get out of the way of other pedestrians. The top of my right sandal catches a cobblestone for the third time in a few minutes, and I almost trip, again. I have no idea how Parisiennes can wear heels. These quaint little sidewalks are like obstacle courses designed for trained street warriors.
“Oh, hi,” he responds distractedly, a video game blaring in the background.
“Is Mom there?” I ask.
“She’s at work,” Thomas says. “It’s the middle of the day.”
“Right, duh.” I’d forgotten Paris was six hours ahead. “Is Aveer with you?” Aveer is my brother’s best friend, and since they’re pretty much inseparable, I know the answer already. I just don’t want to hang up yet. Thomas grunts in response.
“Hmm, well, tell Mom I called, okay? And Dad? Tell them I’m fine.”
As I speak, two meticulously groomed dogs strut toward me. The smaller one, a blond pug, stops to sniff my feet. I bend down and give it a pat on the head. It smells like shampoo, the expensive kind. And I thought I was fancy with my rose-scented body soap.
The woman on the other end of the leash looks at me, incredulous. “Allez viens, Lucien,” she says, pulling her dog away and rubbing where my hand just was. Have I committed some kind of French faux pas? Everyone lets you pet their dog in Westchester. I watch the woman walk away, gesturing to the man beside her. I wonder if she’s talking about the rude American girl who touched her dog without permission. Whoops.
“Later,” my brother says. “Have fun, sis.”
“Wait! Did Mom say anything about me?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Okay…Oh, Grandma Joan stopped by yesterday. She was talking about someone named Aunt Vivienne,” Thomas goes on. “Who’s Aunt Vivienne?” He pronounces it Vivian, but I know exactly who he means.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “And maybe don’t tell Mom about that. Okay?”
After we hang up, I walk and walk and walk, pinching myself on the inside at how thrilling it feels to discover a foreign city on my own, but trying to look like I do this all the time by marching on without looking at my phone too much. I also think back to my conversation with Grandma Joan on the day of the gray leotard, when I filmed my audition. I was sulking in my room that evening, worried my performance wasn’t good enough to get me accepted.
Grandma Joan had been over for dinner, and she was coming to say goodbye before heading home. She sat on my bed next to me. “When you get to Paris,” she’d started.
I sighed. “If I go to Paris…”
“When you get to Paris, you should visit my aunt Vivienne. She’s my mother’s sister. She’s quite old now, ninety-two or even ninety-three, but I think you’ll enjoy her stories.”
She’d slipped a piece of paper into my hand, on which she’d written Aunt Vivienne’s name and number. Then, Grandma Joan had grabbed my chin between her fingers and looked deep into my eyes. “Promise me you’ll get in touch with her.”
I had nodded sadly. At the time, Paris felt so very far away.
“And you better brush up on your French,” Grandma had said as she left my room, pointing at a few books on the corner of my desk. She used to talk to me in French when I was little, but not so much anymore. “Aunt Vivienne doesn’t speak a lick of English.”
I had taken a picture of the paper with my phone after she left, then forgot all about it. Until now.
I scroll through my photos until I see the cursive scrawl of my grandmother’s handwriting. I know I promised, but I don’t really want to call up a random relative who I can’t even have a conversation with, do I?
Even though it’s getting late, I can’t go back just yet. The light is glorious—soft and a little fuzzy, like I’m seeing the city through a vintage lens. I’ve gone to New York City many times—it’s only a short train ride away—but it seems so harsh in comparison. Paris is just…different. There are so many things to look at: the tidy newspaper kiosks on the sidewalks, the little blue placards with street names on the sides of buildings, the vintage wrought-iron signs for the métro stations.