sleep and then out of the city.
He’d had enough of Paris, and he’d only been there about two hours. A new record, even for him.
2
LILY STEPPED INTO the elevator of the youth hostel. At twenty-six, she was a bit older than many of the backpackers, but they were an accepting bunch. She’d never had the money to take a year off and backpack through Europe, so she envied the young students.
Two of them called down the bare-bones hallway to hold the elevator, so Lily stuck her arm out to block the doors.
“Thank you, Lily. Where do you go today?” Blonde and German, Silke and her companion, Hans, had been very helpful since Lily’s arrival, pointing out tricks to getting around the Métro and giving her tips on cheap eats. To save money, Lily ate like the backpackers—rolls and café au lait at the bakery across the street for breakfast, a loaf of bread and ham along with some cheese and fresh fruit for lunch, and maybe a dinner out at a café if she could find one reasonably priced.
“I’m not exactly sure, but probably to la Madeleine.”
“Who?”
“La Madeleine is a giant church in the Opera Quarter. Napoleon helped design part of it.” Lily’s stomach growled. “Plus there’s a huge food mall and flower market next to it.”
“Ah, very good.” She gestured to her equally blond companion. “Hans and I are going to the cemetery in Montparnasse.”
Hans nodded enthusiastically. “Ja, many important writers and thinkers are buried there. Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, Charles Baudelaire and—”
“And don’t forget Samuel Beckett. He wrote Waiting For Godot,” Silke added helpfully, in case Lily wasn’t familiar with that mind-numbing play. Thanks to her English degree, she unfortunately was.
“And if we have enough time, we will see the Catacombes. When they ran out of room in the city cemetery a couple centuries ago, they moved everyone there.”
“Everyone?” Surely they didn’t mean…
“They have walls of skulls and bones. That says so much about what life is all about. In the end, we are just piles of organic matter for others to stare at,” Silke finished.
Lily fought back a sigh. How very grimly existential of them. No wonder they were going into raptures about Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, the king and queen of existentialism. Lily preferred to take a more cheerful view of life, but that didn’t seem to be the European way. No wonder they thought Americans were cockeyed optimists. And of course most Americans, if they thought of the French at all, imagined either mimes in white-striped shirts or else morose chain-smoking café dwellers dressed all in black.
Maybe that was a good blog article. “So what do you think of Parisians?”
Silke immediately answered, “Oh, it is very nice here.”
“Ja,” Hans agreed.
The elevator opened and they walked out to the lobby. “But what do you really think?” she insisted.
Silke looked around furtively. “It is not very organized. Sometimes the attractions do not open on time.”
“Twenty minutes late, even,” Hans threw in. “And they close for lunch at all hours—not what the sign says.”
Lily smiled. Ah, punctuality. The more laidback French attitude did not sit right with German precision. “I can see how that would be a problem. But perhaps some spontaneity is a good thing on vacation?”
They gave her identically puzzled looks. Silke shrugged. “If they want to be open different hours, they should change the signs.”
And that was that. Lily waved goodbye as they set off for their sunny Parisian day of skulls and cemeteries.
Lily turned toward the door, but she bumped into another backpacker, a tall, lean man with a long brown ponytail and matching beard. “Oh, pardonnez-moi,” she tried her French on him.
“No problem,” he replied in perfect English with only a hint of an accent, as he adjusted the straps of his small black backpack.
Rats. “Is my accent that awful?” she burst out.
“What?” He looked at her, startled.
“My accent. My cousin Sarah says I have a terrible French accent, even on basic things like pardonnez-moi and merci.”
He gave a tiny wince as she pronounced those words.
“You hear it, too, don’t you?” she cried. “I must sound like the American village idiot trying to speak your language.”
“Hey, hey,” he soothed her. “How long have you been living in France?”
“I’ve been visiting for a couple days.”
He raised his shoulders in a typically French shrug. “And so you think your two days in Paris means you speak French perfectly?”
“Well, I guess not. But you speak English perfectly.”
“I should hope so. I lived in Manhattan for ten years.”
“Really? I’m from Philly, but I live in New Jersey right now.”
“Ah, Joisey,” he said in a perfect New Jersey accent. Was there no accent this man couldn’t do?
“Hey, don’t knock Jersey. Not all of us can afford Manhattan.” Although he didn’t look like he could afford even the student hostel. And if he’d lived in New York for ten years, he was probably older than the other backpackers, too.
He held up his hands in placation. They were big and nicely shaped, with long, strong-looking fingers.
“Do you play piano?”
“What?” He looked startled again. Lily was singlehandedly earning a reputation for all Americans as being slightly crazy.
“Piano.” She wiggled her fingers at him.
He looked down at his hands and then back at her. “Why? Do you want me to play a tune for you? Would you like ‘Alouette’ or ‘Frère Jacques’?”
“I can see you must be too busy to make conversation.” She lifted her nose like she’d seen her mother’s employer do a million times before to an impudent guest. Mrs. Wyndham was one of the grand ladies of Philadelphia’s upper crust and Lily’s mother was still her housekeeper, in charge of managing the myriad employees and tasks necessary for the smooth running of a historic mansion and busy social activities. “Thank you for your assistance, and have a nice day.”
She brushed past him out the door onto the busy French sidewalk. Fresh croissant or pain au chocolat for breakfast? Flaky French chocolate rolls sounded good. Before she could decide, she felt a touch on her elbow.
“Hey, hey.” Backpack
