But for now, I had one hour on my own. One hour to luxuriate there and bask in the summer sunlight. Or at least, that was what it was supposed to be.
I had an inkling that wasn’t going to be the case. From the moment my feet hit the ground in the city, my charges had left me shaking my head. I was supposed to be guiding two adults and their precocious, teenage daughter around all day, making them feel at ease in the city I had once called home. I’d taken up the charge with gusto, happily regaling them with my tales of drinking wine at monuments and parks (I left out the “entirely too much” part) and explaining how to tackle this particular tourist trap in an hour — a challenge, for sure, but brief enough to enjoy most of the scenery.
Instantly, I’d seen the familiar, camera-toting tourist look cross the dad’s face — I’m paying entirely too much for 11 hours in this place to spend a quarter of it scaling glorified metal scaffolding. So, I knew better than to wander off. And, anyways, there wasn’t much else to wander off to. Where was I supposed to go? The smelly banks of the river? The overcrowded shops lining the nearby neighborhood streets? The fast food joint down the way that I remembered hitting up on a very late evening out?
No, it was the grassy park flanking the monument that did it for me. I’d spent many a Sunday afternoon there, and I was more than happy to add yet another afternoon to that tally. If only I had the wine, cheese, bread and good company to go along with it like I had so many afternoons before…
The day started off excitingly enough. I was up before dawn, waiting for the early morning train. I’d splurged on a cab to get over there that morning — and when you’re getting paid U.S. minimum wages to work in one of the world’s most expensive overseas cities during one of the biggest tourist events in its history, it’s definitely a splurge. My charges had shown soon after I arrived, but they’d procured first class tickets for their train trip and quickly sequestered themselves in the first class lounge. I tried to hide my relief that I wouldn’t have to entertain them the entire train ride.
We connected once happily off the train in the city. But there was no “Hi, how are you?” waiting for me at the station. Instead, a phone was immediately thrust into my hands. “She speaks French!” he insisted to his wife, not bothering to actually speak to me directly or even inform me who I was supposed to be conversing with.
“Parlez-vous anglais?” I asked the woman on the phone. “Absolutely,” she said, “How can I help you?”
Once I’d spoken with the woman (he had called up the ticketing office for the subway system…despite the fact that there was a box office a few feet away), we went to the box office to gather our tickets. A surge of excitement hit me as we made our way to the subway platform, the screech of the upcoming train hissing in the background. I excitedly began to share stories of my commute to school every day as my charges listened to patiently.
Regardless of the city we were tunneling through, I’m guessing my commuter tales weren’t exactly why they had requested a tour guide.
I did, however, know why they had. I’d built out a packed itinerary hitting all of the city’s major tourist stops. First, we were off to the art museum. I had it all planned. We’d depart the subway a few stops early, giving them the chance to talk through the fabulous garden pathways that provided the perfect build up to the world’s most famous art museum.
En route, we snapped a few photos — they had requested that I bring along my DSLR for their family photos, which I was happy to do. They even took a few for me. I gave them a few history lessons as we wandering through the area, sharing the details of one plaza’s bloody background alongside my own anecdotes of buying fresh cut flowers and sipping coffee on the same pathway.
When we hit the museum itself, it became very clear that they were not interested in paying my entrance fee. Having been to the same museum many times before, I quickly excused myself to a nearby bakery and promised to wait at a nearby Starbucks for them afterwards. Starbucks…the universal meeting place for Americans.
After their whirlwind tour of the museum, they were hungry. I mentioned a few places I knew nearby and the mention of “some of the fanciest pastries you’ll ever have” certain caught their ear. So, we were off to the pastry and tea shop. It’s a lovely place, but also perfectly touristy, surrounded by shops peddling postcards, scarves and cheap figurines — a far cry from the authentic, city experience they’d mentioned wanting. I told them as much, but they shrugged it off.
Tea was followed by a walk down the beautiful, tree-lined avenue nearby. It was littered with magnificent storefronts and incredible views from every angle, but I could tell les americains were quickly growing tired of this walking thing. I distracted them with stories — the time I lugged my heavy laptop to this McDonalds because it was the only place that had wifi near the house I was staying and how I once gave a presentation about a famous monument while standing next to the actual monument. By the time we reached the end of the street and snapped the photos to prove it, the harried dad announced he was thinking McDonalds sounded like a good idea. Concerned that I’d be returning to the UK without an ounce of local food in my belly, I quickly suggested we eat after the next stop on our list — conveniently, there were no McDonald’s locations near that.
Back on the subway for a quick journey to la cathédrale. I informed them that my favorite cheap tourist shop was right around the corner, so we stopped there for souvenirs (and perhaps spent more time in the shop than we did at the actual church). And despite my insistence that we needed to take a long, walking route to a more distant subway station to check out some of the city’s bridges, I was overruled. Bridges were not a priority — we had other, more famous stops to check off before jumping on the train home.
Which brings us back to the park and the sunshine.
I’d barely hit the point of feeling drowsy before they returned from what was supposed to be a trip to the top of the monument and back. They’d been part of the way up and down again, somehow finding time to grab a snack from the numerous food carts set up nearby before tracking me down.
They were done.
And they weren’t having any of this “subway” nonsense on the way back to the station. No, they wanted a glass of wine at an authentic, local café (within walking distance of where we were, of course) and a cab to the train station.
One conveniently packaged white lie about my favorite café that happened to be right by the subway station and an interesting cabbie later, we were back on the train. We bid each other farewell and separated, me heading back to the standard car as they returned to first class.
As I stood in line in the dining car to buy an overpriced ham and cheese sandwich, I smiled inwardly.
They didn’t get it.
As much as I tried to give them my city over the course of 11 hours, they never quite picked it up. They didn’t want to. They didn’t want to absorb the beauty of the city or understand it. They wanted to check boxes off of a list. They wanted to go home and tell their friends about how they went to both the world’s biggest sporting event and the City of Lights all within a day of one another.
They were collecting trophies.
My city isn’t a trophy. My city is the sunshine-soaked Sundays on that well-worn grass, downing cheap wine and making friends with the vagabonds roaming trying to rip off tourists. My city is setting out to find that one café I read about online and ending up in a museum dedicated to perfume I didn’t know existed. It’s taking a wrong turn and discovering a new favorite neighborhood. It’s pointing haphazardly at a menu and finding an unexpected flavor. It’s coffees and pastries and cobblestones and red shoes and white dresses and skinny jeans. It’s the 4th of July and subway faces. It’s baby bottles and faux leather jackets and underground photo shoots and Vietnamese food.
But most of all, it’s sunshine.
Those 11 hours may not have been the best I’ve ever spent in my city, but at least one of them was one of my favorite. Because, even if just for a moment, I had that warmth — that Paris sunshine — back.
And when I closed my eyes, I was home.
