Wish You Were Eyre

  For this trip, though, Gigi ignored my mother’s protests. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience,” she told her, “and I intend to pull out all the stops for my favorite granddaughter.”

  This is a joke, of course. I’m her only granddaughter. Her other grandchildren are both boys.

  I have to admit, first class is pretty darn fabulous. A person could really get used to this. Our seats are huge and comfortable, with tons of leg room, and the flight attendants came by constantly during the flight with something yummy or fun—dinner on real china with real linen napkins; ice cream and freshly baked cookies a couple of hours later; free DVD players and headsets; pillows and blankets and even slippers, plus all the soda and juice and hot drinks we wanted.

  As if summoned by my thoughts, a flight attendant materializes with a basket of fresh croissants, orange juice for me and coffee for Gigi.

  “Bonjour, Madame Chen. Bonjour, Mademoiselle Wong,” she says.

  “Bonjour,” Gigi replies.

  “Merci,” I add, practicing my French as the flight attendant passes me a croissant. Apparently my accent isn’t too hideous because she smiles at me.

  A few minutes later she’s back again, doling out warm washcloths.

  “Doesn’t that feel wonderful?” asks Gigi, taking one and dabbing at her face and hands. “It really helps wake you up after such a long flight.”

  For once in my life I don’t feel like I need help waking up. Today’s the day I’ve been wishing for ever since I first got interested in fashion. Even though it’s only something like three in the morning Concord time, every cell in my body is on full alert. I feel like a little kid—I want to bounce in my seat and dance in the aisle and sing at the top of my lungs.

  Paris! I’m going to Paris!

  It’s a dream come true.

  There are only two possible clouds on my dream’s horizon. The first is Simon.

  I finally took Becca’s advice and mustered the courage to email and tell him I’d seen him talking to Sophie. Becca was right; there was a logical explanation. Sophie had actually been trying to videoconference with Simon’s mother. Mrs. Berkeley has been a shoulder for Sophie to cry on during her parents’ divorce, and Simon just happened to be using his mother’s laptop when she called. I felt like a total idiot for even bringing it up. Now I’m worried that Simon thinks I’m some kind of a snoop as well as jealous.

  The other possible cloud is Sophie’s grandfather. When he got wind of our trip, he insisted on meeting us at the airport. He’s offered to drive us around all week, as a thank you for hosting his granddaughter in Concord. I’m just hoping that he’s nothing like Sophie.

  Fortunately, he’s not.

  “Bonjour!” says a white-haired man in a navy blazer as we exit customs a while later. He hurries over to greet us, his face creasing into a broad smile. “Bienvenue à Paris!”

  “Bonjour,” says Gigi, extending a manicured hand. I don’t know how my grandmother does it. As always, she looks like she just stepped out of the pages of Vogue magazine. My face may be clean, but other than that I look like I slept in a laundry hamper. “Je m’appelle Gigi Chen, et je vous présente ma petite-fille, Megan Wong.”

  “Enchanté, Madame Chen,” he replies, taking her hand as he bends over from the waist in a brief bow. “Edouard de Roches, à votre service.”

  He shakes my hand, too. Sophie’s grandfather has the same greenish eyes that she does, but that’s where the resemblance ends. He’s not particularly tall, but he’s not petite like Sophie, either. He’s about my father’s height, I’d guess, and with his snow-white hair and mustache and the friendliness that he radiates, he reminds me for some reason of Santa Claus. A slimmer, more dapper version of Santa Claus, one who happens to speak French. Although technically I suppose Santa is multilingual.

  Sophie’s grandfather doesn’t blink an eye at the mound of luggage on our trolley. Extending an arm politely to Gigi, he takes its handle from me and sets off at a brisk pace. I trot along behind the two of them, gawking at the French signs everywhere and people chattering away in French, my head spinning as I try to absorb all the new sights and sounds.

  I keep thinking about what Fashionista Jane would say. Fashionista Jane Eyre, that is. Although I’m keeping the original blog name, that’s how I think of her now. I’m going to do like Becca said and try and get my Jane on, and give the blog a little different spin this time around in honor of our book club. What would Fashionista Jane Eyre say right now? Probably something like “Reader, I’m in Paris!”

  “Voilà,” says Monsieur de Roches as we leave the terminal and pause at the curb in front of an enormous and very elegant car.

  “Is that a Rolls Royce?” I whisper to Gigi, spotting the hood ornament.

  She nods. “A vintage model,” she whispers back.

  “Votre chariot pour la semaine,” says Sophie’s grandfather proudly.

  I think he just said “your chariot for the week.” I sure hope so.

  He holds the rear passenger door open politely as we get in, then starts putting our luggage in the trunk.

  “Pinch me, I think I’m dreaming,” I murmur to my grandmother as I slide in after her. The leather seat is as soft as Coco’s fur.

  She obliges, her almond eyes sparkling with excitement. “This beats a taxi ride any day.”

  I figured Sophie’s family was rich, what with that picture on her dresser of her house and everything, but a vintage Rolls Royce is a whole different level altogether.

  “The Hôtel de Crillon, oui?” says Monsieur de Roches as he climbs in behind the wheel. “That is where you are staying, correct?”

  “You speak English!” I blurt out, surprised.

  His eyes crinkle at me in the rearview mirror. “Mais bien sûr!” he says. “But of course. You must pardon my accent, however.”

  “I’m used to accents,” I tell him, pointing to Gigi. My grandmother’s English still carries a hint of Hong Kong.

  He laughs. “We will get along just fine then, I see,” he says. “Now ladies, if I may suggest un petit tour—unless, perhaps, you are tired from your journey and wish to, how you say, make a nap?”

  I shake my head vigorously. I don’t want to sleep a second more than I have to on this trip. I’m in Paris!

  “No,” says Gigi firmly. “No naps.”

  “Then allow me to introduce you to my city.” Monsieur de Roches drives along whistling cheerfully—I recognize the tune, because Gigi has been humming it practically nonstop for weeks. It’s something called “La Vie en Rose,” a song from the 1940s that is sort of Paris’s theme song.

  The Rolls sails along the busy streets as serene as a swan. “You have brought le soleil with you, I see,” Sophie’s grandfather says, glancing up at the cloudless spring sky.

  Soleil. I know that word from my work with Bébé Soleil – it means sun. I decide to try out my French in response. “Oui, c’est une belle journée aujourd’hui.”

  “A beautiful day, oui. Very good, mademoiselle. I think Paris she will like you very much.”

  I smother a giggle, and reach into my bag for my sketchbook, jotting down “Paris she will like you very much” and “make a nap.” I’m thinking Fashionista Jane might have to have a section on her blog called “Lost in Translation.” Or maybe “Roches-isms.”

  “Where are you going to take us first?” asks Gigi.

  “Since it is on our way to the hotel, and since it is such a fine day, we shall start with a view from the top—Montmartre.”

  “Ah, bien,” my grandmother says with a happy sigh.

  I grab my guidebook and quickly flip through the pages. Montmartre: Set atop a hill in Paris’s Right Bank, this neighborhood has been a magnet for artists, writers, and poets since the end of the nineteenth century. My kind of place, I think, and read on about its charming village feel, winding cobblestone streets, and the jewel in its crown—the white-domed Basilica of the Sacré-Coeur, which can be seen from all over the city.

&nb
sp; “Voilà!” says Sophie’s grandfather, pointing out the window at a hill up ahead. The church atop it gleams in the sun like a snowy version of the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz.

  It takes us a while to find a parking spot, but we finally do. We head first for the Place du Tertre, the old village square, which is crammed with artists working at their easels. Some of the paintings are pretty good. Then we stroll to the bottom of the steps leading up to Sacré-Coeur, where I gaze open-mouthed at the church’s creamy facade. We sit on a nearby bench for a while, chatting and people watching, until it’s time for lunch. Monsieur de Roches leads us through a maze of narrow, winding streets to one of his favorite cafés.

  There are tables spilling out onto the sidewalk, and since it’s such a nice day, we decide to sit at one of them. Gigi puts on her sunglasses as she studies the menu.

  I look around, feeling that tingle of excitement again. I’m in Paris!

  “So what do you ladies have on your agenda this week?” asks Sophie’s grandfather, after placing our order in rapid French.

  “Well,” says Gigi, opening her purse and fishing out a piece of paper with a long list printed on it. She dangles it in the air. “This is what Megan’s mother would like us to do.”

  My heart sinks. This is the first I’ve heard of any list, and if my mother made it, I can only imagine what’s on it. We’ll probably have to tour some state-of-the-art wastewater treatment plant, or attend a session of parliament or whatever they call their government over here, or visit a bunch of museums. My mother is big on museums.

  “But I have other plans,” Gigi continues, and calmly tears the piece of paper in two. She laughs when she sees the look on my face. “Not that we won’t visit some museums. No trip to Paris is complete without seeing the Louvre and Rodin’s sculpture garden, at the very least.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “But this is our special trip, just for the two of us. And we’re going to do whatever we want.”

  “Ah, spoken like a true Parisienne!” says Monsieur de Roches, lifting his glass. “I salute your joie de vivre.”

  I know what joie de vivre means, too. It means spirit, or joy in living. That’s my grandmother to a T.

  “You’re the best!” I tell her, leaning over and kissing her cheek.

  Over lunch, she and Sophie’s grandfather launch into a spirited discussion, mostly in French, of all the possible things that we could see and do. They break into English every now and then in an effort to include me, but I’m perfectly happy just watching the world go by. Before long, my fingers start itching for my sketchbook, so I take it out of my shoulder bag and slip it discreetly onto my lap where I can draw between bites.

  The café isn’t on a touristy street. I can tell by the kinds of people walking by that they actually live here. Some are pushing strollers, some have tiny dogs on leashes, some are walking arm in arm. Plus, the shops that surround the café are the everyday sort—bakeries, florists, cheese shops, stuff like that. Lots of people go by carrying shopping bags that sprout those long, skinny loaves of bread they call baguettes. Gigi told me that the French really appreciate fresh food and tend to shop every day instead of once a week at the supermarket, the way we usually do at home.

  As I sketch, I try and imagine myself living here. What would it be like to have an apartment in Paris, and shop at that boulangerie across the street for bread, or at the poissonnerie down the block for fish, or buy flowers at the fleuriste next door?

  It would be heaven.

  “What are you smiling about?” asks Gigi, interrupting her conversation with Monsieur de Roches.

  I shake my head. “No reason,” I reply, still smiling. I can’t help myself. I’m in Paris!

  I’m also getting sleepy. It’s midafternoon now, which means it’s like nine a.m. back in Concord, so technically my day should just be starting, but the jet lag is starting to catch up with me. Mostly I just catnapped on the plane.

  “Et bien, mesdames,” says Sophie’s grandfather, looking over at my drooping eyelids. “I do think perhaps you are ready to go back to the hotel now and make a nap.”

  As we wind our way down through the maze of streets from Montmartre into the center of Paris, I catch glimpses of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, and I lean out the window of the Rolls several times to take its picture. I take a picture of our hotel, too, as we pull up in front of it. It looks like a palace.

  “The Hôtel de Crillon was a palace built for Louis the fifteenth,” says Monsieur de Roches as he shuts off the engine. “It is a masterpiece of eighteenth century architecture, and all of Paris is at your feet.”

  I know; I’ve seen the map. We’re just a short walk from the Jardin des Tuileries and the Grand Palais and the Carrousel du Louvre and all the other venues where the fashion shows will take place this week, plus we’re in the heart of one of the most famous shopping districts in the entire world.

  “It’s been a delightful day, Monsieur Roches,” Gigi tells him as we get out of the car. “We can’t thank you enough.”

  “Oui, merci beaucoup,” I echo, trotting out a few more French words I feel confident using.

  “De rien, de rien,” he replies, which is French for “you’re welcome.” It literally means “it was nothing.” He opens the trunk of the Rolls and a bellhop appears and busies himself with our luggage. “When may I have the pleasure of your company again, ladies? The car is at your service all week.”

  “Our schedule is quite full tomorrow,” says Gigi. “But perhaps Tuesday? Unless you’d care to walk around a bit with us later this evening. I want Megan to see Paris at night—it’s so beautiful, all lit up.”

  Monsieur de Roches gives another one of his brief, dignified bows. “I would be delighted to accompany you both tonight. What time shall I return?”

  “Shall we say eight?”

  “Eight it is. À toute à l’heure.”

  “À toute à l’heure,” we reply. That means “see you later.”

  We follow the bellhop into the hotel’s palatial lobby. I’m experiencing a combination of jet lag and sensory overload at this point, and can only blink at the elegance—soaring ceilings, marble floors, lots of gilt, crystal chandeliers. The fashionistas are starting to arrive too, judging by the people I see milling around. Either that, or the hotel guests dress in couture all the time.

  I follow Gigi upstairs to our room. There are floor-to-ceiling windows with elegant wrought-iron balconies outside, and more chandeliers and gilt. There’s a marble fireplace and a tapestry on the wall and more marble in the bathroom. I’m feeling like Jane Eyre must have felt when she first arrived at Thornfield. It’s all so unbelievably grand!

  “I’m setting the alarm for two hours,” says Gigi as I flop facedown on the fluffy comforter and pile of pillows on my bed. “Any longer than that, and we won’t sleep tonight. We need to get switched over to Paris time as soon as possible—we have a busy week ahead!”

  My nap feels like it’s over before it started, and I have to force myself groggily into the shower after the alarm goes off. I emerge wrapped in a fluffy robe and feeling slightly more awake just as room service is delivering our dinner.

  Settling cross-legged on the end of my bed, I help myself to what Gigi calls a croque monsieur, a sort of a fancy grilled ham and cheese sandwich.

  “Tomorrow we’re having breakfast with Wolfgang and Isabelle,” she says, consulting our calendar. “Ooo, you’re in for a treat. They’re taking us to Angelina, one of my favourite spots in Paris!”

  “What is it?”

  “A salon de thé,” she replies. “A tea shop—and it’s a restaurant, too, and patisserie. You’ll see. It’s very special.” She looks at the calendar again. “After that, we don’t have anything scheduled until your lunch with Bébé Soleil, so I thought maybe we’d walk down the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré and Avenue Montaigne and do a little window shopping. Maybe even real shopping. Give you a bit of an overview.”

  I nod, taking another bite o
f my sandwich.

  “And of course there’s also the Place des Victoires, the Champs-Élysées and the Rue de Rivoli or, if you’d rather, we can scoot over to Les Halles or even Saint-Germain-des-Prés and poke around in some boutiques.”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?” asks my grandmother.

  “Yes everything.”

  She laughs. “That’s my girl! I brought you to the right place, didn’t I?”

  We look over the rest of the week’s schedule—it’s jammed with fashion shows, of course, but there are also blocks of free time in which Gigi has penciled other destinations such as the Louvre, Versailles, and something called Ladurée.

  “Edouard mentioned at lunch that he’d like to take us on a river cruise too at some point, if we have time,” Gigi says frowning at the calendar. “But I’m not sure we’ll be able to fit it in.”

  “Edouard?”

  “Monsieur de Roches.”

  “Oh, right. When’s our first fashion show?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  Gigi comes to Fashion Week almost every year, and she says that especially for a first-timer, there’s no point trying to go to all of them. There are shows every hour on the hour from ten in the morning until ten at night all week, so nobody can see everything. “Best to pick and choose,” she told me when we started planning our trip, even though my inner fashionista was screaming to try and cram them all in.

  Back in Concord, my grandmother had me go through the calendar of events and prioritize my choices, limiting them to three or four a day. “Any more than that, and your head might explode,” she told me, and Wolfgang agreed. “Gigi is right. See three or four, blog about one or two,” was his advice. Once I had my wish list, he went over it and narrowed it down even further, then had Flashlite get invitations for Gigi and me.

  We’ve also been invited to a couple of soirées in the evenings, again thanks to Flashlite. The biggest one is Flash magazine’s own farewell party next Saturday, on our last night in Paris.