Taking our time and listening to several conversations, we decided this was the place where feisty tourists came to haggle over the price of a painting. Eiffel Towers abounded. Every size, viewpoint, color, and texture of the familiar icon could be purchased at prices that were equally varied.
A small rectangular painting of the Eiffel Tower, no larger than a postcard, caught my eye. It was on a pegboard under a blue tarp along with a dozen other small paintings. I loved the clouds the artist had captured and the definitive surety of the proud Eiffel Tower.
“How much for this one?” I asked the artist.
“Five euros,” he said.
Even though it seemed customary to barter, I thought it would be easier to pay the asking price. The truth was, I would have paid twice that. I handed him a five-euro bill and told him the picture was beautiful.
“Merci,” he said, his head dipped down.
I wondered if this middle-aged man had dreamed of greatness when he first followed in the footsteps of the artists whose work now hung a few kilometers away in the many Parisian museums. Did he feel he never had accomplished his life goals and now was relegated to this tourist spot, destined to express himself in simple yet masterful bits of art that sold for Metro fare?
My heart went out to him as we continued to admire his other works.
“That one is very nice.” Amy nodded at a larger painting of the Eiffel Tower with a background of pink blossoming trees and thin clouds in the deep sky.
I understood what she was feeling. Her love-hate affair with the Eiffel Tower had begun. She was sinking into a quiet place inside herself. I knew all the signs in her as well as I knew them in myself. What was it she had told me that morning? Once I knew why Eve covered herself with fig leaves and hid, I would be free. It seemed Amy needed to solve some tandem riddle to be free as well. Maybe God was pursuing both of us.
Amy went all out and bought four of his eight Eiffel Tower pictures.
“These are really wonderful,” I told him. “Very beautiful. You paint clouds that are so peaceful.”
“Merci.” He nodded his head without smiling.
Amy said something to him in French, and he granted her the smile I’d been trying so hard to extract but had failed to acquire.
“What did you tell him?” I asked as we walked on and took our time viewing a collection of countryside paintings.
“I told him his work showed the depth of his pain.”
“And he liked that?”
“Apparently. I was thinking that if I stood outside under constant public scrutiny just for the opportunity to express on canvas what I felt inside, I would want someone to recognize that what I was doing cost me something. I sort of got the idea from something you said.”
“Something I said?”
“You said you thought of God as the artist, and we are His maverick subjects. I’ve been thinking about that. Considering His willingness to not stop expressing Himself out in the open, in front of a world full of critics, I think God’s work in us is beautiful. More than that, His work in us expresses the depth of His pain.”
“Where do you keep coming up with this stuff?”
She shrugged. “You’re the one with all the deep insights, like God being a master artist. I’m just taking what you’re saying and adding a few little thoughts.”
I wasn’t sure what to do with Amy’s insights. I knew we were in a corner of Paris that was just made for philosophizing.
Shops full of fun souvenirs also surrounded us. At the moment, the thought of shopping was more appealing than solving my problems, so I urged Amy into the first shop. From there, her shopping instincts took over.
The Rodin Museum was next on our “to see” list. We braved the trek back to the Metro station and found that downhill wasn’t nearly as grueling as the uphill had been.
Amy had the Metro stops figured out and led the way to the Rodin Museum. We agreed that the gardens were beautiful, but we were more interested in looking inside. The museum was in the house and studio where this nineteenth-century Michelangelo lived and worked. His statues all expressed a sense of motion. We gazed appreciatively at many of his emotive pieces but quickened our steps to find the statue of The Thinker.
“Did you read this?” Amy said. “Twenty-nine authorized copies of this statue make it the most famous statue in the world.”
“I think I liked some of the statues at the Louvre more than this one.” Glancing at my watch I added, “It’s still early. Would you mind if we went back to the Louvre? There’s so much we didn’t see yesterday.”
Amy was all for another round at the Louvre. This time we lasted only a few hours before she said, “What do you think about catching a taxi and going to the Fleur de Lis for afternoon tea?”
“Lovely idea.”
“I’m glad you think so because I’m on masterpiece overload. I’ve seen too much. I’m not appreciating any of it the way I want to.”
“A cup of tea would do us good. Have we had anything to eat today?”
“Just the coffee and pastry early this morning at the Champs-Elysées café.”
“Then I’m more than ready for afternoon tea.”
Off we went to the Fleur de Lis Hotel, where Grandmere had once gone and had to sit up straight and wear gloves.
We didn’t have gloves, of course. And we soon realized we were underdressed. But Amy was an expert at sterling posture, so I followed her lead. I adjusted my beret, smoothed back my hair, straightened my shoulders, and walked behind elegant Amy with my chin up.
The hostess showed us to a duo of plush royal blue chairs in a corner near the harp. A small marble-top table between us became the resting place for the china cups of imported tea and the plate of sweets. I left the ordering up to Amy again, with complete confidence that she would have no problem knowing what both of us would enjoy.
My only request was that she order plenty because I was hungry. The server delivered two plates loaded with sweets. We had several kinds of cookies and half a dozen chocolate bonbons as well as a generous slice of some sort of decadent-looking cake. Small cubes of cheese dotted the plates of delicacies along with a large chocolate-dipped strawberry.
“That’s odd,” Amy said, her shoulders still where they were supposed to be for all women of refinement. “I thought I ordered something different. Something with little sandwiches. This is a whole lot of sugar!”
“Oh, well!” I popped a chocolate into my mouth. “Bon appétit!”
“Don’t you mean bonbon appétit?” Amy asked.
I could tell we both were feeling pretty uppity.
“Wow!” I said softly as the inside of the bonbon burst open in my mouth. “This is really rich. The filling has a sharp fruity twang to it.”
Amy made a little face. “You can have mine then. I don’t care for chocolate-covered cherries, if that’s what they are.”
“I don’t know what they are, but the taste is fantastic.”
I took small, dainty bites of the scrumptious cake and followed with another bonbon. The harpist plucked an airy tune with her thin fingers. She seemed to know how to gather notes into a melody the way a florist gathers single flowers and turns them into a bouquet.
Amy nibbled on the cookies and sipped her tea. She abstained from her bonbons, so I helped her clear her plate. I had no trouble finding room in my empty stomach for her share and mine of the fruity, creamy chocolates. They were dark chocolate on the outside and inside each had a different flavored center that was syrupy thick yet with a density and tang I’d never tasted before in a chocolate candy.
I poured a second cup of tea and sat up straight, keeping my knees together. I felt as if we were still in third grade and playing a game of grown-up tea party. Glancing around the lounge, none of the other well-dressed diplomats and persons of influence seemed to be playing tea party. They were having tea for real. Two men across from us leaned in toward each other intent on serious discussions that, for all we knew, could have been
of strategic importance to world peace.
An African woman entered in a breathtaking native outfit of bright yellow and green cotton fabric. She wore the matching material on her head in a beautiful headdress and walked as if she were a queen. The men in their tailored suits rose when she entered the tea lounge area and greeted her with a kiss on the back of her hand.
“I wonder if this is the sort of afternoon tea Grandmere had here,” I whispered to Amy while reaching for yet another bonbon. “Do you suppose people of influence were meeting here seventy years ago when Grandmere came?”
“According to the plaque on the wall when we entered, Benjamin Franklin met King Louis XVI at this hotel to sign some sort of treaty.”
Raising my eyebrows to show I was impressed, I tried to lick the corner of my mouth where I’d missed a spot of the fabulous chocolate.
“Benjamin himself!” I said. The buzz I was getting off the candy was making me feel high enough to fly a kite and discover some untapped streak of electrical current. “These chocolates are really something. Are you sure you don’t want one?”
“Positive,” Amy said. “My stomach is a little upset. We really should have eaten some protein first.”
“Is it warm in here?” I asked.
“No, not really. Are you warm?”
I suddenly had to blink to focus my eyes on Amy.
“Are you okay?” Amy looked at me closely. She sniffed twice over the tray of goodies and then picked up the final bonbon.
“I knew you would change your mind,” I said. “They are really, really, really good.”
Amy took a tiny nip at the chocolate so that the marvelous inner goo oozed out. She took a kitten-sized taste with the tip of the tongue and looked at me with surprise.
“Ooh, Lisa, you should have gone easy on these.”
“Too late. Why?”
“I think they’re filled with liqueur.”
“Are you serious?”
“Didn’t they taste that way to you?”
“How would I know?” I didn’t feel so well. My stomach wasn’t used to receiving such extravagant deposits. “Can we pay for this and get some fresh air?”
“Sure.” Amy made a gracious motion for the uniformed server to come over to us. She asked for the check as I rummaged for some euros in my purse.
“Put your money away, Lisa. I’m paying for this one.”
“I can contribute,” I said. “How much is my half?”
“Let me put it this way. The bonbons alone have a street value of twenty-five euros.”
I knew that wasn’t good. My stomach wasn’t good either. “Amy, thank you,” I said, as she signed the Visa bill.
I stood and felt woozy. “Uh-oh.”
“You okay?” Amy asked.
“No.”
Picking up our pace past the Armani-suited men, I tightly pursed my lips together. My expression must have said it all because, just as we rounded the corner into the lobby by the plaque honoring Benjamin Franklin, Amy assessed the need.
“You’re going to lose it, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” was all I could manage. I was too busy measuring the distance to the front door while scouting out the lobby for possible planters to lean my head over.
Amy pulled off one of her shoes and thrust it over my mouth and nose. If I hadn’t already needed to throw up, I would have then.
Blessedly, I’ve always been a quiet sick person and not like Amy with her “oohs” and “ohhs.” Also blessedly, like the best friend she always has been, Amy stepped in front of me and blocked my performance from the view of any sedate guests.
I urped as quietly as I could in her shoe. One urp was all it took.
“You okay?” Amy whispered.
I nodded, blinking in utter humiliation. I didn’t look back into the tea salon to see if my “moment” had caused a hiatus in the world peace negotiations. It seemed better to keep walking and never look back.
“The sign says the restroom is this way.” Amy led the way, limping only slightly in her stocking-covered foot.
I held her shoe under my arm the way some diplomats hold a folded copy of the New York Times.
“Oh, Amy,” I said the moment we were behind the bathroom door. “I threw up in your shoe.”
“Yeah, I know. I was there, remember?”
“But how did you know that I was going to throw up?”
“The only other time I’d seen that look on your face was in fourth grade at the Thanksgiving pageant. Remember? Randall Finnley’s hat?”
I groaned and rinsed my mouth with water in the sink. Being reminded of the fourth-grade disaster made me feel queasy all over again. Amy and I were part of the chorus group waiting backstage while the star students went onstage dressed as pilgrims and Native Americans. Next to the cardboard turkey they stiffly reenacted the friendly greetings exchanged at the first Thanksgiving. I had turned to Amy backstage a few moments before the performance began, and all I said to her was, “Uh-oh.”
Amy took one look at my pale face, grabbed Randall Finnley’s pilgrim hat, and held it up to my mouth at the crucial second. It wasn’t pretty, but at least it was brief.
Randall Finnley appeared on stage thirty seconds later without his hat. His arms were crossed and he was wearing a puckered scowl. The audience waited for him to deliver his opening line of, “Welcome to the feast.” Instead of sticking with the script, Randall reported in his boisterous stage voice, “Lisa Kroeker just urped in my hat!”
I think that was the beginning of the Kroeker jokes with the double meanings.
“Amy, I’m sorry.” I wet a paper towel and dabbed the back of my neck.
“Don’t worry about it. I never liked these shoes very much.” She took off the other closed-heel clog and gleefully tossed it into the trashcan.
“Amy!”
“Go ahead. Toss the other shoe in there, too. We’ll have to go shopping now. Too bad, huh?”
“Shopping?”
“Yes, shopping. I need a new pair of shoes ASAP.”
I argued with Amy that we might be able to clean the defiled shoe.
“Lisa, are you kidding? I never could slip my foot into that shoe again. Go ahead, throw it away.”
I dropped Amy’s shoe into the trash receptacle. “Amy, I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t interceded at the right moment.”
“Oh, I have a pretty clear mental picture of what you would have done. Come on, let’s ask the concierge where a person in desperate need can buy a pair of shoes in Paris.”
A voice with a heavy French accent spoke to us in English from behind one of the closed stalls. “Michelle’s on Rue Denon in St. Severin. They have the best selection of shoes. But you will need to hurry. They close at five o’clock.”
Amy and I looked at each other with surprise and then in unison said, “Thank you!” We didn’t stick around to see who was making the helpful shoe recommendation since we only had half an hour to reach the shop before it closed. Apparently women around the world understand when it comes to shoes.
Trotting out of the world-class hotel in her stocking feet, Amy asked the bellman to hail us a taxi. She did this as naturally as if she were a frequent guest at this fine establishment and always went about the streets of Paris in her stocking feet.
Amy repeated the name of the store and street to the taxi driver. I was glad for her keen memory because I already had forgotten what the mystery woman told us. It took ten minutes to travel across town in the afternoon traffic. Overpaying the driver because Amy didn’t want to wait around for change, we dashed into the boutique-style shop and eyed the displayed shoes.
I gazed the way a weary mom stares in her freezer and tries to decide if she’s going to thaw a pound of hamburger or a package of chicken wings for dinner. Amy gazed tenderly, like a proud auntie at the window of a hospital maternity ward, eager to figure out which one of the darlings is her new nephew and how soon can she get her hands on his chubby little cheeks.
/> “These are nice.” I picked up a basic brown loafer that looked like the same style Amy had worn in high school. I always gravitated toward the classic look. That way I could be fairly certain I wasn’t going out of style before the clothing wore out.
“Boring. I like these better.” She held up a sassy pair of hot pink shoes with a glittery buckle.
I thought she was kidding and said, “And where, exactly, would you wear those?”
“Everywhere! They’re adorable. Jeanette would be so proud of me, if I bought these shoes. Or these.” She held up a bright yellow shoe with a black bow across the toes. I had to agree. The yellow shoes were darling.
With four potential shoe replacements in her hands, Amy turned to the saleswoman. “May I try these on in a size eight and a half or nine?”
“No,” the saleswoman said, glaring at Amy’s stocking feet. “We have only European sizes. We do not have eight and a half or nine.”
“Okay,” Amy said undaunted. She slipped into French and apparently asked the woman to measure her foot to determine her European size. The sales associate was much more agreeable and kept talking with Amy at a fast clip in French.
Task completed, the clerk went off to obtain the selected shoes. Amy looked at me and made a face. “Thirty-seven! How depressing to wear size thirty-seven shoes.”
Thirty-seven turned out to be Amy’s new best number, as she tried on what seemed like thirty-seven pairs of shoes in her new size thirty-seven. I watched each pair go on and off her feet. I particularly liked the pair of hot pink shoes with black patent leather straps. Extracting them from Amy’s reject pile, I nonchalantly slipped one of them on my feet. The ridiculously delectable shoes slid on with Cinderella-fit perfection and made me smile.
“Are they yummy?” Amy asked.
“Amazingly yummy. They’re so comfortable.”