Luiza
It’s a cold foggy morning in Paris today. The sunlight from in between the clouds is hitting my vanity mirror and straight into my eyes. I get out of bed and make my way to the kitchen as soon as my alarm goes off, buzzing as loud as a fire alarm. It’s 8:25 am and it’s time to start the day. While walking to the kitchen I think to myself - “I hate mornings. I hate alarms. I hate this weather.” As you can probably tell, I am not a morning person. I turned on the big red button on the Nespresso my mother gave me last Christmas when she came to visit. “It will come in handy for the 8 am lectures and classes,” she said. As the machine is working, making all sorts of buzzing and humming noises, I walk into the narrow white hallway of my tiny, humble Paris apartment, and no, it does not have the view on the Eiffel Tower for any of you who might be getting misguided.
Instead, it has the view on a charming narrow road with a charming little avenue at the end of it. I open up the curtains to the noise of a couple dogs barking and the sound of children laughing on their way to school. I have to say, I am absolutely in love with Paris, and I feel like I get to love it more and more everyday. It’s been three days since I arrived here from San Francisco, the city where I grew up. I've always wanted to major in the arts, I'm glad that after a very long gap year I've finally gotten somewhere in life. “BEEP” the machine has stopped and decided to let me know by waking up the whole neighborhood. Half asleep, I take my favorite mug out of the kitchen cabinet and pour myself a cup of ambition.
As I am about to sit down at my table to enjoy my coffee, I hear a knock at the door. That's curious. I am not expecting anybody, especially not at this hour. Don’t French people sleep till like noon? I open the door and nearly faint as the most beautiful man my eyes have ever encountered stands there, before me. Brunette. Tall. Deep, brown eyes. Age? About 29, maybe 30. Not to mention I look like a tired walking disaster with a cup that says keep calm and play chess written inside a heart.
“Huh-Hi, um bonjour can I help you?” I say.
The man looks up and down at me, scanning me almost.
“Oui, I mean - yes. I don’t think we’ve met yet. I’m Matthieu, your neighbor from the floor above. Just wanted to say hi.”
“Oh yes, of course. Thank you for stopping by. I’m Camille, Camille Cartier.”
“Well, enchanter Camille.” He says with a smirk and slowly heads back up to his apartment.
I chuckle nervously.
Have a good one Matthieu.
I shut the door.
It’s now 9:49 am and I’m about to be late for my first job interview. And even though I’m half French, I don’t know my way around here as much as a local. I’ve been coming to Paris every summer ever since I was seven or eight. Here’s the thing, my mother is from the States but my father is French. He passed away when I was nine years old due to cancer. My mom really wanted to keep the French in me, so she decided it would be good for me to visit our home country every year, to come back to family and roots.
I put on a white breezy sundress paired with a long, brown trench coat and a pair of black boots, threw on my jewelry, grabbed my handbag, and left. I head towards the metro. The cold early October wind blows my dress up as I walk down the rusty stone steps of the Paris Metro. I put my earphones in and fill my head with positive thoughts, or at least I try to. After all, I’m just a 24-year-old girl trying to earn some money so that I can actually afford the apartment I’m living in. Amelie, my only friend here so far, told me that taking a job in between classes in the first year of college will most likely kill me. Especially a job that involves being a barista at a local coffee shop in Paris. But I try to stay positive, as always. I get off the metro at Louvre Rivoli. The coffee shop I’m heading to is on Rue de Rivoli, right next to the Louvre, which is by far my favorite area of this city. It’s filled with culture, art and royalness. The coffee shop is just around the corner.
At 10:19 am I arrive. I’m currently dying out of impatience and nervousness. My palms are oceans, my foot is tapping against the dark wooden floor, with the end of the boot making it sound like a ticking time bomb. I have butterflies in my stomach. No, not just butterflies. A swerm of them, a whole colony it feels like. I think to myself, ‘how do I make a good impression? I just hope my American accent when speaking French won’t be too big of a concern.’ Another thing I can’t get out of my head is Mattieu. His soft eyes, deep stare and heavenly, wavy hair. I hear echoing footsteps coming out of the staff room. I look up to hear an oddly high pitched, yet very I-smoke-a-pack-a-day voice. “Camille Cartier? Venez avec moi.” It's a kind looking, petite barista with a bright smile stretching from ear to ear. She must be the manager. Quickly, I stand up and follow her. Suddenly, I feel confident. I have a good feeling about this. We sit down at her desk. “Alors, Camille…” she begins.
Six minutes into the interview she asks me about my personal life. ‘I’m an artist studying cinematography and majoring in art at the Paris College of Art on Rue Fénelon. I enjoy reading mystery novels and cooking in my free time. I’m a big people person and I love being surrounded by or meeting new people”, I respond. Ten more minutes pass. After an interview that felt like a lifetime, Madame Dupon stands up. “Alright Ms. Cartier, because I’ve got to discuss the decision with my co-manager, I’ll get back to you with the information regarding whether you’re hired shortly via email. I would say no later than 7 pm this evening.”, she concludes. Unsure, I leave Le Chat Noir Caffe feeling more nervous than when I came in. An email? In over six hours? I just hope she looks through my resume and makes the right decision. I also hope she can read English because mine happens not to be written in French. Although charming, I’ve noticed people in this city aren’t too open minded. Yesterday when I asked a lady at the Boulangerie for a pain au chocolat in English, the woman looked at me, up and down as if I was an alien. She frowned and told me to leave. Very welcoming first day for me, really. I’m walking down the dreamy, crowded street avenue, taken straight from a Pinterest Paris inspiration board. The picture perfect scenery of the city calms my nerves down a little bit. The wind is blowing in my hair and the autumn leaves are twirling around the old oak trees on the alley.
It’s 11:52 am. I look down at my phone to check my notes. I keep everything in there. I’m currently swiping left and right amongst cooking recipes, shopping lists, art supply store coupon numbers, art gallery opening invitations, and important reminders, in order to find my to do list for today. To be fair, my notes could be a little more organized. I guess they’re a physical representation of an art student's brain trying to hold their life together in their twenties. Found it. Written in bold letters, ‘thursday, october 8th to-do-list’. Lets’ see. ‘‘Job interview - check, buy 1034 beige and 1109 navy blue paint, finish unit 2 expression and emotion painting,’ I read in my head. I head to the art supply store to buy the paints and a couple more paint brushes because mine at home are literally falling apart. Unpaintable. Unusable. I quickly tap down the stairs into the underground of the metro, taking little tiny steps, holding onto my dress tightly, for it not to fly up. My palms are still sweaty from the interview. I don’t know how I will cope through today, having this uncertainty about my future. Without this job it’s bye bye apartament, bye bye paris and bye bye Matthieu.
Thirty six minutes, 12 metro stops and a five minute walk along La Scène later, I arrive at the store. It's a small, dark, charming art supply store, full of colors, paints and artwork all around. As I walk in, there’s a whiff of strong coffee smell that hits me. Cigarette smoke odor as well. French people smoke A TON, I mean it. They smoke for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert. There isn't anyone at the front desk. I look around, bend forward onto the hard wooden counter and take a couple quick glances. I ring the little reception-like bell twice. “Oui oui. Une seconde, j'arrive!.” , answers a deep, sleepy voice. A tall figure emerges from the hippie purple beaded curtain that leads into the backroom of the studio, holding a cigarette. It’s Matthieu!
“Hi stranger.”
“Oh my god,” I chuckle, “Matthieu, you work here?”
“Yes, this is my store. You like it?” He answers in his intensive French accent.
I find it kind of cute to be honest.
“Yeah!” I exclaim, “It's really great.”
“So what does a pretty girl like you need today?”
“Oh ha ha stop it,” I blush, “just those two colors over there. Beige shade 1034, and navy blue shade 1109. I say, pointing at the two paints, positioned on the shelves behind him. , and the paintbrush set over there, the one with three big flat brushes.”
He hands over all the items and places them on the counter. He isn't scanning them.
“How much do I owe you for this pleasure?” I ask.
“Oh don’t worry,” says Matthieu charging the items into a big tote bag, “the supplies are on me.”
“No, Matthieu. You really don’t have to.”
I can't resist but smile. I smile and giggle a bit. I reach into my purse to get my wallet. He grabs my hand, attempting to stop me. He stops my heart. My heart skips a beat.
“I mean it,” he says.
He smiles and hands me the bag.
“Have a good afternoon, Camille.”
Matthieu put out his cigarette to wave me goodbye. I wave back with a little shake.
I walk a couple meters along the street then stop to look down at my phone to check my list again. In my head I read, ‘Job interview - check, buy 1034 beige and 1109 navy blue paint - check, finish unit 2 expression and emotion painting, check email for any news!!.’
“Mince!” I say under my breath. Matthieu completely made me forget about the email. Now I can’t help but feel anxious again. After taking a couple deep breaths in, I head back home to finish the last thing on my to-do-list; my unit 2 painting. On the way home, I don't stop glancing down at my phone, with hope that an email notification pops up and I get this suffering over with.
After stopping by the Boulangerie for a quick croissant, I’m finally home. It’s 3:04 pm. I pour myself a cup of coffee and get straight to work. Three long creative hours later, the final painting is complete. Done. Painted. It's a feeling I can't explain. The best feeling there is. Accomplishment and relief. The reason why I love creating art. Extremely tired and exhausted, I pick myself up off my painting stool and walk over to my bed where I decide to take a power nap. I'm a hibernating bear. A heavy rock in a cold red desert. A steady tree in a deep, deep forest. I can’t help but fall asleep. Just before completely drifting off into a heavy sleep, I hear a knock at the door. I walk over half asleep and open the 200 year old heavy door. It’s Matthieu.
“We have to stop meeting like this.” I say, rubbing my eyes.
Matthieu giggles.
“Am I interrupting something important?” He giggles again.
“Nope, just jetlagged. I moved here from the states. Whats up?” I ask.
“Oh of course, jetlag. It’s the worst. How about you tell me all about America over some dinner?” He proposes.
I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say. I want to cry tears of joy. I decide to play it cool and confident.
“Oh my god, I thought you’d never ask!” I smile warmly.
“Haha. Bien. Meet me downstairs in 30 minutes. I’ll take you to my favorite restaurant.”
“Sounds good. See you!”
I close the door, immediately putting my back to it and taking a big breath in and a big breath out. This is it Camille - I say to myself out loud. I’m jumping up and down like a six year old girl when she first discovers pink glitter. It’s 5:18 pm and I’m getting ready as fast as I can. Dresses are flying everywhere. Shoes all over the floor. Red or purple? Hoops or pearls? Gold or silver? Leather or denim? I find myself asking the stuffed toy money on my bed for shoe advice as a twenty-four year old woman. Twenty minutes later I make my way downstairs. Matthieu is waiting for me, in a beige breezy blouse and navy blue cargo jeans. The same two shades of colors I bought at the store earlier today. My heart is overwhelmed with excitement. I forget all about the email. All about the apartament. All about all my worries. We walk down the half empty ally, the street lights suddenly light up and the sun begins to set, creating a beautiful blue pink colored dusk sky.
After about ten minutes of walking and chatting about art and San Francisco, we arrive at a beautiful, romantic Brasserie. The ones you see in the movies, on the corner of the ally, with the chairs facing out into the busy night street. We sit down at a fancy table facing the city center. From a distance, you can see the Eiffel Tower, glistening in the dark like a million of diamonds, glowing bigger and brighter as the sky turns dimmer and darker. When the waiter comes over, I order a tartine au framboise and a baguette au jambon fumé, along with a glass of red wine. Matthieu lights a cigarette. I observe carefully as the lighter sparks a couple white specs and follows with a prune colored purple flame, turning into a bright orange color. As an artist, I observe a lot. I find art in pretty much everything, that is how I get inspiration for my projects.
“You want one?” He offers.
“Oh no thank you, I don’t smoke.” I reply
“Ah, pas de probleme alors.”
“May I ask why you smoke? How did you start?” I question, intrigued.
“I use it to deal with work and stress. The store isn’t doing too well at the moment.” He sighs.
Oh my god! Stress! Work! That reminds me, the email! I whip out my phone so fast to check my inbox. Nothing. The time on my phone says 7:04 pm. Suddenly, I’m not happy anymore. A wave of worry hits me like the Titanic crashing into the iceberg. I’m drowning in hopelessness.
“Hey? What's wrong?” Matthieu asks, concerned.
I explain the whole situation to him. As if I was talking to a friend I've known my whole life. He’s a great listener.
“I am so sorry, Camille. Don’t lose hope. What if she just hasn’t had time to answer you today.”
“I’m pretty sure a no reply simply means no. I mean, Madame Dupon was so nice and warm, a woman like her wouldn’t be able to say no. I bet she was too scared to hurt my feelings and send the email rejecting my employment, so she simply didn’t send it. Well she succeeded, she hurt my feelings.”
“Oh don't say that. You know that's not true.”
We sit in silence, awaiting our food to come. The whole ambiance has suddenly turned grey and the Eiffel Tower doesn't seem to be glistening and glowing so bright anymore. Our dishes are ready. As the waiter approaches us with the platters, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. Just as I thought all hope was gone, I check to find an email from Le Chat Noir Cafe. I’m hired!
“What? What is it Camille?! He exclaims after seeing my bright facial expressions.”
Now, even the waiter is intrigued.
“‘Dear Ms. Cartier,’ I read out loud. ‘I sincerely apologize for the late response. I’ve had a long talk with my co-worker and we are both so pleased to inform you that you have been hired to work at the Le Chat Noir Cafe and start tomorrow at 9 am sharp. Please pick up your apron and name pin from my office five minutes prior to your shift, just in case. Don’t be late and can’t wait to have you as part of the family. Kind regards, the Le Chat Noir Team.’”
“Camille! That is great news! I’m so happy for you!” Says Matthieu with a big bright smile, giving me a warm hug.
“Congratulations!” Says the waiter in the strongest French accent I have ever heard.
I can’t help laughing at that accent. I try to contain myself, though. He’s being polite.
“Um, haha thank you so much!” I say, giggling.
The waiter places the dishes down on our table, we thank him.
“One more bottle of champagne, s'il vu plait!” Orders Matthieu.
“Mat, I can’t afford this. I whisper, it’s ok, I already have my glass of wine.”
“The bottle is entirely on me. We have to celebrate! You’re a barista now!”
He’s right. I do need to treat myself tonight. I am so proud of myself. I let him order the champagne bottle.
It’s 8:39. There’s some classic French piano jazz music playing in the background as we sit there, in Paris with the most beautiful view. There is a light breeze. As the air gets more chilly, Matthieu pulls me closer to keep me warm. In that moment I think to myself, what on earth did I do to deserve this. I feel like I’m in a fairy tale, and I’m the princess. The champagne arrives and we pop the cork together.
It's 9:00 pm. Matthieu leans in for a kiss, and so do I...
THE END