Amour à Paris

The yellow sun glowed, showering the city with golden rays of warmth gently baking the streets of stone against the shimmering blue backdrop of the Parisian sky. A stiff cool breeze hit the Seine and carried its refreshing mist through the streets of the city. Flowers sitting on the window sills of small markets and restaurants grew fragrant as the mist met the delicate petals. And just as delicate were the sweet smells emanating from the flowers, welcoming the warm spring morning and soothing the otherwise grumpy disposition of our story’s main characters who sit on the patio of the humble ABC café.

Scott is a quiet unassuming American tourist fresh out of college out to discover more about himself in the romantic City of Lights. He is in unfamiliar territory, a term that can be applied to any territory more than a few inches beyond the borders of his hometown. He is a short, stout, but handsome man with unkempt walnut hair and lazy shoulders that seem to shy away from his ears from some unknown reason. Scott’s voice is scarcely described as booming by the few who have heard it often enough to make a fair assessment.

Sophia is a droll unaffected student of the local university who spent most of her free time reading and painting but mostly in private. She loved to travel but hardly ever has the means to do so. That never let her natural spontaneity stop her when she was younger having hitchhiked all the way to Spain and back one summer. Romance was the only term that she failed to recognize as a legitimate concept having had her heart broken by the few loves she had known. Her closest friends were allowed to call her Sophie so naturally that was a version of her moniker she hardly ever hears. Her raven hair flowed in gentle curls past her shoulders and stopped just above her rich brown eyes whose sparkle seemed to send the unintentional signal of her wanting strangers to strike up a conversation. Outside of French, her smooth voice passed through her lips with an accent well versed in the driest of humors.

The waitress brings out a tray of various coffee drinks associating each cup with the face that ordered it, wandering around the patio to distribute them accordingly with the faint hope of a large tip. A cup of Café Noisette goes to Sophia, the lovely young girl with a wool beret and a matching cream colored scarf. As the waitress sets it on the table, Sophia nods and smiles back at her without taking her eyes off her book of short stories by Guy DeMaupassant.

Scott clumsily takes his seat behind Sophia gracefully slamming his chair into hers (apologizing profusely immediately after) just before sitting down. He takes out a small colorful pocketbook; the kind that lets people know from a distance that it is unequivocally a translator’s dictionary. The waitress smiled a dubious smile at Scott. Tourists were usually the best tippers, particularly Americans who didn’t consider the current exchange rate. On the other hand, Sophia was just simply put annoyed at the ordeal.

“Le chocolat chaud pour vous, monsieur ?” the waitress smiled knowing that Scott could not understand a single word.

“I’m sorry. I don’t--” Scott smiled stupidly at the waitress as he fanned through the pages of the translator’s book.

“My apologies, monsieur,” she replied, “Did you order the hot chocolate?”

“Oh! Yes, that would be me!” he answered, relieved. “I’m sorry, but it’s a beautiful language. I just never got around to learning any of it.”

“That’s perfectly all right sir,” the waitress replied, “Just let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right inside.” She smiled at him and tilted her head down to make her eyes look more seductive than they actually were. Then she giggled as she turned away from Scott. Flirting was always a sure way to inflate one’s tips. Sophia was annoyed by the giggle and scoffed to herself.

“Maintenant elle est juste cruelle,” Sophia muttered under her breath.

“I’m sorry. Did you say something?” Scott asked. Sophia turned around.

“Je ne vous parlais pas.”

“I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re saying.”

“Je ne parle pas d'anglais tout que bien et même si j'ai fait, je ne gaspillerais pas mon haleine avec un touriste.”

“Maybe if you spoke more slowly I could understand.”

“Pourquoi parlez-vous toujours?”

“Such a pretty language!”

“Il n'y a aucune façon que vous êtes cela stupide,” Sophia said as she raised the book to her face exaggerating the hint that she would like to be left alone.

“Guy DeMaupassant? I’ve heard of him.”

“Bon pour vous! Vous pouvez lire!

“I read a few of his short stories in college. I really enjoyed’ Little Soldier.’ But my favorite would have to be ‘Moonlight.’”

“Ils ne savent pas comment prendre une allusion d'où vous êtes ? Vous devez être l'américain.”

There was an awkward 30 second pause that may as well have lasted 2 whole minutes as the two sat staring at the other. Sophia furrowed her eyebrows confused as to whether she was annoyed or flattered at the tourist’s attention. Scott furrowed his eyebrows wondering if she was annoyed or flattered at his gawking.

“Wow, you’ve got beautiful eyes,” Scott mumbled.

“At the very least, you’re adorable,” Sophia replied as she laughed quietly to herself.

“It’s funny, under any other circumstances I wouldn’t have the courage to tell you how pretty I think you look. Even if I had a few drinks in me, I’d probably be too shy.”

“Je me demande que vous dites. Vous semblez le type silencieux donc je pense que ce n'est pas terriblement romantique autrement vous rougiriez.”

“I guess this works out best for the both of us,” Scott smiled.

“C'est un sourire de regard maboul. Je suppose que vous flirtez avec moi.” Sophia smiled back.

“Ah! A breakthrough in communication,” he shook his head confidently and smiled to himself.

“Ne hochez pas votre tête comme ça. Vous ressemblez à un idiot,” she smiled and nodded as if jokingly taking pity on the shy tourist. Scott sighed at her response feeling that he had embarrassed himself.

“I probably looked like an idiot just now, didn’t I?”

Sophia got up from her chair and folded the book onto her table. Extending her right arm towards Scott, she smiled softly to him. He got up and shook her hand firmly. Still with a goofy looking smile, Scott extended his arm to gesture her to sit at his table. With a distinguished nod and smile, Sophia obliged.

“Mon nom est Sophia.”

“Sophia?”

“Sophia.”

“Sophie.”

“Non! Je ne sais pas que vous assez bien soyez appelé Sophie. Je réserve ce privilège seulement pour les plus proches d'amis, une position que vous avez encore, si du tout, gagner!”

The look on her face was stern but not mad, and the tone of her voice had only the subtlest hint of genuine anger. But Scott shrank back to a corner waiting for her to smack him on the nose with a tightly rolled up newspaper.

“I’m sorry,” Scott apologized profusely.

“Si vous êtes l'américain vous vous distinguez sans doute de tout les autres que l'essai de recevoir mon numéro de téléphone.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Radicalement différent. Mais d'une bonne façon.”

“God, I wish I knew what you were saying.”

“Dieu, je regrette que je ne sache pas que vous disiez.”

“The French language sounds like the pouring of a very fine wine.”

“L'anglais a l'air du fait de dégouliner d'urine très chaude dans une rue publique.”

The two smiled each other, laughing to amuse the other. Another awkward pause filled the thirty seconds of silence before Scott got an idea.

“I know!” he shouted, startling Sophia, “You’re book! I can talk about you book… Hopefully.”

Scott shoved his index finger into the air hoping it was the international symbol for “I’ve got an idea!” He took out his pocket book and shuffled through the pages with his thumb back and forth occasionally peeking up at Sophia to let her know that he wanted to tell her something.

“Ah ha!” Scott victoriously leapt out of his seat and apologized for startling Sophia before continuing with his best attempt at broken French, “'Le clair de lune' selon ce livre est un préféré mien.”

“C'était … joli et étrange.”

“This is not going the way I thought it would.” Out of frustration, Scot wrung the translator’s book in his hands and let it fall onto the table. The two of them sipped their respective drinks before Sophia leaned on her hand and looked at the spine of the translator’s pocket book on which was a picture of the Eiffel Tower.

“Vous savez, c'est bizarre,” Sophia finally commented, “J'ai vécu à Paris depuis les cinq ans passés et je n'ai jamais été à la Tour Eiffel.”

“Oh, that. I’d love to go see that but I can’t for the life of me figure out how to get there. In fact that’s why I stopped here. I was hoping to get directions. I bet you’ve been there a million times.”

“J'évitais toujours que la région à cause de toute la circulation. Vous croiriez que je me serais trouvé présent au moins une fois.”

“Maybe, I was thinking, if you’re not too busy,” Scott struggled to complete the sentence, “Would you like to accompany me to the Eiffel Tower? I’d really enjoy it.”

“J'ai une idée. Comment de nous allons à la Tour Eiffel ensemble ? Il pourrait être amusant.”

“Is that a yes?”

“C'est oui?”

“Oui?”

“Oui!”

The two got up from their seats and left their payment on the table. As they walked off, Sophia waved sarcastically to the waitress who rushed to her waiting tip money. They walked along the Seine, not bothering to contact a cab. Both Scott and Sophia and Scott took advantage of the extra time they were spending together to know the other one better. Still not fully understanding the other there are certain aspects of a budding romance that fate takes care of its own. One would make a joke and the other would giggle out of wanting to keep the other’s attention.

The Eiffel Tower grew tall out of the horizon which was jagged with the rich Parisian skyline. Crowds of the tourists, families, photographers both amateur and professional, couples in love both young and old gathered at the base of the large steel structure. All gazed up at its enormity which can only be fathomed from the ground.

Scott and Sophia put their hands to their brows and looked up, smiling first at the very top of the landmark, then to the happy crowds around them, and finally to each other. They both shied away, initially, and turned their eyes away from each other. But the atmosphere was much too rich with romance and wonder that neither could resist turning back to see the other one’s eyes. Scott smiled coyly and Sophia returned the favor letting her hand slide down to her side. Sophia leaned towards Scott and let her hands gently grasp his.

Warmth spread from the point of contact where her fingers tickled her palms and crept its way to his face. He tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his blushing rosy cheeks. They turned towards each other and smiled softly. Sophia leaned towards him. Scott leaned towards her. Their lips touched softly together as they closed their eyes. And for an instant, the rest of the world did not exist when they kissed.

“Le fait de tomber amoureux par la Tour Eiffel,” Sophia commented, “Comment incroyablement cliché.”

“Cliché? I love that. It really is a beautiful language, Sophia,” Scott remarked. Sophia held his arm and leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Appelez-moi Sophie,” Sophia answered.

They held hands and walked along the Seine until the sun had set creating a raspberry colored sky. As the streetlights lit along the bridges and pathways, it reflected as hundreds of dancing stars in the water. Arm in arm they reached the café where it all began and kissed each other one last time. Perhaps they will see each other again down the road, and maybe they will know what the other is saying. But whatever their futures hold, they will always have “amour à Paris.”