It Started in Paris

Chapter Three: Jet-lagged

It was an eight-hour plane ride to Paris, the city of love. We rode a Parisian Taxi which is completely different from the cabs we have in New York because some of them accepts credit cards. We handed the address to the driver. He silently drove until we have reached the apartment. I handed my credit card and paid for the fare. The owner of the building escorted us to the door of our apartment.

"Just ignore those," the old French lady named Gertrude motioned to the stack of envelopes on the floor. "We found it hidden underneath an old king bed before this room renovated. They still keep on coming from someone we don't know and we dare not touch it. The owner might come back." She unlocked the apartment and the doors open to the most breathtaking apartment I've ever seen.

"Wow." Leila said.

We both looked around the room in awe.

"I want to live here," I muttered underneath my breath.

The spacious, elegant, one-bedroom apartment has the feel of a four-star hotel in Gianni Versace style. By the looks of it, it can accommodate up to four people. The living room has all-new furniture featuring a Roche and Bobois leather sofa bed. The dining area highlights the Roche and Bobois table and chairs for four. A flat-screen TV offers the creature comforts of home. Lovely hardwood parquet flooring gives the apartment a true Parisian feel. The bedroom is equipped with a double bed queen size, a comfortable armchair and a big window facing the street. The kitchen is fully-equipped with brand new, modern appliances and fixtures. It's a comfortable place in which to prepare Parisian-style meals. The combination of furniture from different periods creates a very elegant setting for eating. The bathroom is fully equipped with state-of-the-art rainshower shower and the water closet is separate and accessible from the hallway.

Leila dropped herself on the bed. She breathed and said, "This. Is. Life." She immediately got up as if a thunder struck her an idea. "Margaret likes unique and fun-looking reports even though she looks serious and all that."

I was puzzled. "What does that supposed to mean?"

"We can make your report fun! Let's take pictures of what you did and send it with a paragraph or two about the photo. You might even get a chance to be a model in the next issue." She made a faraway look and placed her hands in mid-air, ""The New York journalist takes Paris"," she beamed. "That will be on the cover."

I giggled. "That's a great idea!" I said, resting my hands on my hips.

She grabbed her pink hand-carry and pulled out her camera. "Let's begin."

"What? I'm not wearing proper clothes," I said.

Leila smiled as she stole a shot of me in my brown-framed shades atop of my head, Betsy Johnson Cream Cluny Lace halter dress and nude flats with my hands on my hips.

"Leila!" I scolded.

Leila giggled and previewed my photo. "You look good," she said, impressed.

"Let me see." I sat beside her at the edge of the bed and looked at the shot.

To be honest, I never knew I'd look this good.

My face wore a serious look with my mouth slightly ajar, my body was slightly positioned sideways, hands both on hips and one foot a little at the back.

"You're really good," she said as we both stared at the photo on the tiny screen of her SLR.

We got of the apartment with American dollars in our bags that we wanted to change into Euros. After heading to a local money changer, we tried out a few French dishes at a restaurant we passed by. We felt a little tired after walking around town and got a little lost so we took the cab back to our apartment. To our dismay, it turned out that our apartment was just on the next street. We barely spoke to each other anymore. When we saw the sight of our loving bed, we immediately dropped dead.