I asked.
Terry smiled but let go of my hand. He bit his upper lip.
“No offense, Frannie, but how do you know that we’ll even be dating next summer? It’s pretty far away. Besides, I probably can’t afford it. And I might not be able to get away from work.”
Undaunted, I plunged right off the high-dive. As if I were the trained lawyer, I laid out a reasoned argument. One, plane tickets were cheap; two, food was inexpensive (a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou); three, Terry’s friends in Paris would probably put us up, and if not, we could stay in hostels and pensiones. (Although this was the era of “Europe on Ten Dollars a Day,” the idea of backpacking, though it would have been even cheaper, wasn’t an option for me.)
“Frannie, I can’t imagine you staying in a hostel. Your idea of camping out is a room at the Holiday Inn.”
I pushed ahead.
“Well, at least think about it. If, for some reason—and I can’t imagine what that would be—we break up, or something comes up, then we cancel. People cancel all the time.”
Since I knew Terry loved to gamble, I pulled out the ace of spades.
“You know, after Paris we could drive south to Monte Carlo. Visit the palace. You could gamble at the casino. Try your hand at blackjack or roulette.”
He changed the subject.
“You thirsty? Want something to drink?”
Once at his apartment he drank beer, I drank Coke, and we made love for the rest of the afternoon.
Years later when we dug out photos from the trip, Terry said: “Remember that day we first talked about going to France? You came on pretty strong. Pushy New YAWK-er. And guess what? Turns out you are.” He grinned, raised a Bud, and saluted me. “You know I’m only kidding.”
“You’d better be.”
On July 20 of the year following our first meeting, Marlene and David were waving good-bye to Terry and me at the Kanawha County Airport. Terry and I were boarding a puddle jumper to Pittsburgh for a connecting flight on Icelandic Airlines. In Reykjavík my feet hit foreign soil for the first time. In terms of our relationship, however, it was as if we had crossed the Atlantic Ocean only to land on the shore of another sea; the Sea of Desire.
But as that day began, Terry and I trudged behind other weary passengers to the duty-free shop. I sifted through bins of hand-knitted sweaters, scarves, and gloves and purchased purple mittens for Matt and two cartons of Salem Menthols for myself, and Terry carried two bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label and Cuban cigars back to the plane.
Hours later, we arrived at the tiny airport in Luxembourg. Anticipating jet lag, I had booked us into what was, for us, an expensive downtown hotel. After surrendering our passports at the front desk, we followed a porter to an elegant room—high ceilings, enormous bed, ornate headboard, plush duvet, and heavy drapes in rich mauve. A chandelier glistened overhead. His-and-her bathrobes hung in the closet. This was no hostel. I untied the heavy drapes, pushed open the shutters and gaped at the pedestrians strolling in the park below. Terry ordered ice and poured himself a tall glass of whiskey.
“Terry, come look. It’s . . . charming, like I imagined.”
He reached around my waist with one arm, while with the other he raised his glass.
“Here’s to you, kid.”
We held hands and lingered at the window. I ran a bath, and, like every American encountering one for the first time, felt compelled to make a comment on the bidet.
Steam soaked the mirrors and the black-and-white tiles as we sank into a claw foot tub. Like children, we splashed, played footsie, and soaped each other’s backs.
“I can’t believe I’m here. I feel as if I’m in a movie,” I said.
“Not too shoddy,” he said as he raised another glass of Johnnie Walker. Wrapped in thick terrycloth robes, we tumbled onto the king-size bed and nestled beneath the thick duvet. We quickly shed our robes, and some time later, as I basked in the afterglow of lovemaking, Terry fixed another drink.
“You want one?”
“No, I’m fine. But I’d like some water. Do you think it’s okay to drink from the tap?”
The next morning, we slept late, skipped breakfast, and fondled one another in the shower.
“How about it?” Terry asked. As he pressed himself against me, it was apparent that he was definitely ready. But I demurred.
“Not if we want to check out on time.” I ventured coyly. Who was I kidding? I was as ready as he was.
So it was some time after checkout that we loaded our suitcases into a tiny aquamarine Renault and headed toward Paris.
“You drive,” I offered. “I’ll navigate.” I unfolded a map and Diane’s letter with directions to her apartment, located in the 20th Arrondissement on the eastern edge of the City of Light.
We drove in what we hoped was the right direction, but encountered road and street signs we couldn’t decipher. The feeling of disconnect due to the language barrier was something I hadn’t anticipated. Terry clutched the steering wheel and maneuvered the Renault through heavy traffic. Other tiny cars were parked bumper-to-bumper; many straddled the space between the curb and sidewalk, if there was a curb at all.
“You know, this is like driving in Manhattan during rush hour. Only the cars are smaller. And if New York drivers parked their cars on the sidewalk, the cops would tow them in a heartbeat,” I said.
I was fumbling with the map as we entered the city limits. Utterly lost and confused, I yelled,
“Lions at a gate! Diane wrote something about statues of lions at a gate as we enter the city.”
Terry hunched forward frantically and gripped the wheel.
“Frannie, this isn’t a safari.”
But somehow, there they were, lions! After many wrong turns, somehow we’d stumbled upon the right apartment building. We parked the car as Jacques, Diane’s husband, held open the wrought-iron gate. He was a gregarious giant with jet-black hair, friendly eyes, and the prominent nose of a de Gaulle or a Sarkozy.
“Ter-ree. Bienvenue, bienvenue. Come, come.” He helped carry our heavy luggage through a sunless courtyard and up three steep flights of stairs.
Diane opened the door to their tiny apartment and greeted us in her husky voice, “Come, come, so good to see you. Did you have any trouble finding us?” She and Terry hugged. A tall, bone-thin blonde with blue-green eyes and pale skin. Next to willowy Diane, I felt like a frump. As we crossed the threshold, I spied a bare mattress that covered the entire living room floor. Terry and I would sleep there, while Jacques and Diane squeezed into a daybed tucked into an alcove. This lack of privacy did not inhibit our lovemaking. When Jacques and Diane headed for work, Terry and I headed for the mattress. Some days, we spent as much time exploring one another as we did touring that magnificent city.
During our five-day stay, we lingered for hours at the small table set beside a window facing a courtyard, and drank
