I find myself on a bustling street, packed with bistros and restaurants. It’s so narrow that people and motor scooters fight to share the space. Tiny round marble tables flanked with checkered rattan chairs spill onto the street. The chairs face outward, and people sit next to one another, watching the world go by.
Just then, a man wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a cap pulls out a few coins, drops them on his table, and leaves. I rush to take his place, sliding into the black-and-white woven chair. Sitting next to me is a woman with several shopping bags at her feet, talking quietly on her cell phone. A baguette peaks out of one of her bags, and my mouth waters at the intoxicating smell of fresh bread. Would she notice if I tore off a piece? I’m kidding. Sort of.
The waiter, dressed in a white shirt and black apron, looks just a couple of years older than me. He’s kind of cute, in a rumpled sort of way. I hope he ignores me for now, because I don’t know what I want. Or rather, I don’t know what I’m supposed to want. What do glamorous French girls order to drink? The woman next to me covers her phone with her hand. She turns to the waiter and says, “Un Perrier rondelle, s’il vous pla?t.”
The waiter nods and walks off. I repeat the words under my breath. “Un Perrier rondelle, s’il vous pla?t.” I do it over and over again, trying to mimic her accent, to remember where she put the intonations.
After a few minutes, the waiter comes back with a small green bottle of sparkling water. He pours it in a tall glass with a slice of lemon on the rim. He also places a bowl of chips and the check on her table. The woman thanks him with a nod before going back to her conversation. It’s not that difficult, I tell myself. I can do this.
The waiter then turns to me to take my order. “Et vous, mademoiselle?” And you, miss?
It sounds formal, but kind of charming, too. He smiles as he waits for me to answer. I smile back.
“Vous avez choisi?” He asks if I know what I want, not taking his eyes off me. Come on, Mia, focus. I sit up straight, holding my head high—never not a ballerina—and say, “Un Perrier rondelle, s’il vous pla?t.”
“Tout de suite,” he answers. Coming right up.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t pause. He understood me on my first try. I beam.
Two minutes later, he returns with my drink, and I swear he takes as much time as possible to put everything down. His eyes flick up toward mine, and the hint of a smile is forming on his lips. Is he flirting with me?
“C’est mon premier jour à Paris,” I say in a way that I hope sounds kind of cute. It’s my first day in Paris.
“La chance!” he responds. Lucky you!
I nod and bite my lower lip. Someone a few tables away tries to wave him over, but he doesn’t move. Okay, Mia, enough. You’ve never had time for boyfriends before, remember? That’s what I told Cameron, anyway, after we dated for a few weeks last winter. His family lives down the street from mine, but between school and ballet, it just didn’t work.
I’ll admit it was nice at first, having a boyfriend. After each date, Cameron would send me a song link that reminded him of me. Then he started suggesting we spend more time together and got grumpy whenever I left to go to ballet. I liked him, but…I got kind of annoyed about that. One night we stayed out until midnight, chatting and kissing after a movie. The next day I missed my alarm and got to my Saturday ballet class late. My teacher didn’t let me in, even after I pleaded with her. I broke up with Cameron that afternoon.
“à bient?t, j’espère,” the waiter says as he starts to back away. See you soon, I hope.
His eyes linger on me for another second, and my heart flutters.
“Merci,” I say. My cheeks must be bright pink.
Sipping at my sparkling water, I lean back in the squeaky chair and let the moment wash over me. I look at the reddening sky. The sun sets so late over here, like the evenings know that they’re magical and should last for as long as possible. I breathe in the warm, sweet air of summer. And the best part? It’s only day one. Hello, Paris. I’ve arrived.
“TO SUCCEED HERE, you must understand that there will be no downtime, no room for error,” Monsieur Dabrowski informs us as we take position at the barre for our first class of the afternoon. “You have been given an incredible opportunity. Do not waste it. I want to see complete dedication to your craft, starting right now.”
I definitely want to be fully dedicated to my craft starting right now, but I’m not sure my body is up to the task. I barely slept last night, after my dreamy evening of wandering around Paris making eyes at cute waiters （okay, just the one）。 Now my limbs feel stiff. Mom had warned me about the effects of jet lag, but I had sort of assumed I’d be too excited to feel it. I was wrong. At least, I’m lucky that classes are taught in English and that I don’t have to rack my brain to understand what our revered teacher is saying.