Paris In the Rain

Chaptet 1: At First Rain

"This is what you do on your very first day in Paris. You get yourself, not a drizzle, but some honest-to-goodness rain, and you find yourself someone really nice and drive her through the Bois de Boulogne in a taxi. The rain’s very important. That’s when Paris smells its sweetest. It’s the damp chestnut trees."  Audrey Hepburn

Chaptet 1: At First Rain

 The airport was congested and loud. It was spring, the end of May to be exact. Around five in the evening I’d say. The city, well I hadn’t seen it yet. It was my first time leaving America. This was my graduation present. I came alone; my mother got caught up with work. I was twenty-two, alone, and in Paris.  This perception left me mesmerized. I wanted to see it all, and only had a month.

The jade V-neck I wore was wrinkled, and my denim shorts as well.  I think this sometimes happens on a sixteen hour flight. I didn’t care. I was in Paris. Collecting my plaid Burberry duffle I exited the airport. It was raining. I didn’t care. I walked into it. Everything smelled dewy from it.  Then another scent hit me:  lemongrass, nutmeg, and citrus. I turned my head towards it.

Then I saw him.  Older maybe, around twenty-seven , chestnut curls shoulder length. His back was facing me and he was tall: over 6’5”. He was very broad in the shoulders: a door’s width. He was ordinary, but to me fascinating. Though it was raining I didn’t care. 

This was a problem: I’m not that girl. The one that contemplates running  after a stranger. I wanted to though.  Most likely I was just that eccentric. I looked it: my skin too pale, eyes too blue like sapphires, and my copper blonde curls too wild.  Not to mention elfish in stature no more the five-feet standing. There I was running after him. I was reckless taking off after a guy through the rain. I couldn’t mind to care.

It rained harder, and I was soaked through. He was, well dry, standing under his dull black umbrella. His dark jeans and white button up unscathed. He carried his prime black luggage with ease.  I wanted to follow him. Needed to, I didn’t know where I was going. They say Paris in the rain will do that to you.  It rained harder still. I lost him in the crowd of Parisians.

With a languid gait, I pivoted turning my direction in hopes of locating a taxi. Eventually I found one,

“Pardon Monsieur, à Hôtel des Art, sur 5, rue Tholozé.  S’il vous plait,” The taxi driver was of Indian descent, and middle aged. He smelled of curry: to my discontent.

“Oui, Mademoiselle,” His reply was an in French, but held a Hindi accent, bizarre.  I slide into the cool leather seat, trying to get comfortable. It didn’t work. I stopped trying. A song came on over the radio, it was unfocused and too fast for me to decipher. I starred up at the steely sky, no hint of sun. At home it would be a big tangerine in the sky, scorching the earth as it set. That was the Midwest, not Central Europe.

Roughly 30 minutes later I arrived, and gave the cabby his money. It was still raining, so I dashed for the cherry red door. Once inside the air-conditioning caused me to erupt in shivers. I was jet-lagged. Even though at home it was seven hours behind I needed rest. Feeling utterly cranky I stalked to the counter. I didn’t bother with the water I was trailing on the tile.

The concierge was middle-aged, bald, and pissed: at me, “I would like to check in.”

His expression told me he didn’t like Americans, “Yes Mademoiselle, what is your last name?”

“Elliot.” He typed into the computer I couldn’t see. His smile was a barely concealed sneer, “Here you are Mademoiselle Elliot.”

“Merci Monsieur,” I gave him a jeering curtsey before I made my leave.  Decisively with my key in hand I made my way to the stairs. I was not one to trust elevators in France based on experiences I’d heard. One of my former French instructor’s pupil met the fate of being trapped in one for five hours. It wasn’t all terrible though, he married the girl he met when stuck there.

I found the white stairs leading up to my room. I found the number the same as on the key '12' and turned the lock. My room was small. At least smaller than the picture of it I’d seen online. That was fine for it was clean.  It was decorated it citrusy shades.

Settling my Burberry on the bed, I was thankful it escaped the rain. My first course of action was grabbing my white sheep-skin slippers; even if it looked clean the floor was not worth trusting. With labored steps I made it to the insuite. Cornflower and white striped cotton pajamas, as well as navy blue shower shoes in hand.

My shower was long and scorching hot. When I was finished everything in the orange bathroom was steamed over. I felt more relaxed, less contaminated by the recycled plane air. Then I folded down the apricot covers and paused. Waiting for the late evening, I did not wish to sleep too early no earlier than 20h00. In the mean time I thought, mostly about the man from the airport. I didn’t know why, but chose not to care. I’d never see him again anyway.

Oddly that made me feel dejected, like when a friend moves and you lose contact. Is that what love felt like? No, it couldn’t be. If anything I was infatuated with the man, something about him made me curious. The next thing I knew it was morning. I never even saw sleep coming, and was unable to escape.