The door snapped shut. Oh god, I had just gotten fired from being a nanny in Paris. In French it’s ‘au pair’, in English: slavery.
Oh shit, the door is closed. I had five euros in my clenched fist and the family had sent me on my way. “Here’s five euros for the train.” Well merci.
“Shit…shit…SHIT!” I didn’t know how to say “merde,” yet (which is crap en Français) but whatever. I looked around…the hallway was a dim yellow, and the train is 2.75 euro, so fuck you guys. Why I got fired is a story for another day. Heaving my luggage with both hands, I took the elevator down and stepped out into the balmy air.
Of course it was raining.
Paris is blue. Always has been, always will be. But she’s especially blue when there’s a sheet of rain covering the cigarette smoke and charming cafés. In another instant, this would have been terribly romantic. It was terribly romantic. I was homeless, then Paris, and it was pouring.
I saw the lights dimming in the streets, and the water was spraying like a fine mist. It was laughable. Then the headlights came, and I cursed myself for not waiting underneath a nonexistent balcony. The baker next door, who had called me a charmante mademoiselle only days ago, looked at me with pity and turned away.
The headlights stop, thank god. But this is France, and the taxi driver is certainly not going to help me too much with my luggage. Glancing at him, I clamber in all the same.
“merci, monseiur.” That’s all I knew, and I repeated it like the lifeline it was.
Oh my god, I’m homeless in the city of lights. Who I crashed with is another story, for another time.
I trembled, and yes, I panicked. But your heart beats a little faster when you’re lost in Paris. Hemmingway must have gotten lost in Paris. Many lovers did before me. I smiled. I was lost in Paris, and it was raining.