Quand l’aventure appelle,
When adventure calls,
Repondez-en.
Answer it.
Something changed the moment your foot met the platform.
Your blonde curls bounced against your back, as you lugged your purple suitcase through the maze of people getting off the Eurostar. There was a cacophony of wheels grinding on the concrete, a collection of loud voices speaking a mixture of English and French and elbows nudging ribcages as people tried to make their way under the ‘Welcome to Paris’ sign. My stomach was churning and a lump was slowly climbing up my throat, but it evaporated when you turned around and flashed me a small smile.
Right there. That’s when I noticed the difference.
You weren’t being consumed by the crowd, you weren’t fighting to hold your ground, you were moving through the crowd with ease, as if everyone was parting to make a clear path for you. That sense of confidence was contagious. My nerves were under check, they weren't shaking me to the core, because I was focusing on you and you seemed perfectly calm.
The calm within the storm.
I never understood what drew you to me that night. I was sitting in the corner of a pub in Camden that was filled wall-to-wall with people. The air was filled with the scent of salty peanuts and beer and electro music pumped through the speakers, causing the floor to vibrate under my feet. You were leaning against the wall opposite me, drinking beer from a bottle, while the red and green lights flashed across your worn white t-shirt. I found myself staring at the faded freckles that spread across your cheek, your slightly crooked front tooth and your eyes, your wild, wild eyes that were filled with belief. Our eyes met briefly, until I broke contact and turned back to my beer. Before I knew it, you made your way over and sat in the chair opposite me. Neither of us said anything at first, we just sat there, in silence, fading into the background. Were you drawn to me out of pity because I was drinking alone? Or could you just sense you were needed?
“Liam.”
Your Australian accent pulled me out from my daydream and I ran to catch up to you under the welcome sign, where you were leaning against the post, smiling. A bunch of tall guys hurried over to you and asked if we needed a taxi, but you shooed them away with a wave of your hand and lead us outside to a quiet street, where the sun pelted down on us. We pulled our luggage over the cobblestone path, passing graffiti-covered walls and overfilled dumpsters that smelled of rotting fruit. It definitely wasn’t the Paris that I’d seen in brochures, but I trusted you, so I kept following.
We stopped at a main intersection, where you hailed a taxi. A beat-up white sedan barrelled down the street, before abruptly stopping in front of us. You opened the boot, threw both of our suitcases inside, before we slid into the backseat. You muttered something in French to the driver, he nodded back, and hit the gas pedal, sending me slamming into the door and making me hit my head on the window. I swore, touching the side of my forehead with two fingers, while you looked at me, smiled, and laughed.
Smiling and laughing. You did a lot of smiling and laughing that weekend. So much so that your child-like giggle will forever be etched in my memory. I’m glad. I’m not too sure that I ever want to forget it.
We pulled up outside L’hôtel de Bernard, a beautiful limestone building that came complete with a doorman in a black tux with a matching cap. We walked the red velvet path into the foyer, guided by the doorman carrying our luggage, and were greeted by a balding with a thick black moustache behind the reception desk. You started talking to him in French and the wide smile on his face made it clear he appreciated the effort. He titled his head toward me, you looked and said something I didn’t understand. The only part I caught were the numbers, so I reached for the velcro wallet in my jean pocket. You nudged me, shook your head and pulled out a platinum amex, sliding it along the dark veneer to the man.
“I got it.”
You never told me about your past. You were a mystery that refused to divulge any of your secrets. I didn't mind, but things like a platinum amex told me a few details about you. You were young, so it couldn’t have been yours. You had souvenirs in your suitcase from other places like Asia and the Middle East, so I knew you'd been jetting through the skies for a while. You moved quickly wherever you were, as if you couldn’t stand being in the same place for too long, as if you were on the run. What you were running away from, I didn't and still don't know.
But you seemed perfectly content in Paris. You were happy to move at a glacial pace.
A bellman took us up the rickety elevator and the second he opened the white door to our suite, you ran past him, shot through the living room and opened the balcony doors. I sat down on one of the embroidered couches and watched you on the balcony. You were gripping the black wrought iron rail tightly, and staring at the limestone opposite. After a while, you came back inside and planted yourself on my lap, smiling, always smiling.
"Don't get too comfortable, mon ami. Today's adventure isn't over yet."
You blindfolded me with that pink scarf you were wearing, your fingers brushing against my cheek as you did so. Yet again, I was willing to follow you, to trust you. It's like you had a pull over me and I couldn't help but be sucked in. Maybe I was craving the adventure that I was too scared to take and I knew you'd be the one to take me.
You led me through the hotel, into a taxi and we whizzed along until we arrived wherever we were going. Your warm fingers laced around my wrist, as you pulled me along, until we stopped and you took off the blindfold, revealing the Paris I'd seen in the brochures. Perfectly manicured lawns spread out in front of me, until they met the sky, which was starting to fade into pastel blues, oranges and pinks. London Plans trees framed the area, their wirey branches dressed in the few remaining green leaves they'd managed to cling onto, jutting out around us. People were running past us, iPhones out and aimed, as people called to their fellow travellers in a collection of different languages.
But above, that was where the real masterpiece stood.
Black iron beams jutted from concrete foundations on the ground and cascaded towards the sky, interlocking and separating, until they came to a point. Le Tour Eiffel. I smiled as my eyes passed along the names of the architects, engraved on the first-level balcony and ran my fingers through my short brown hair. Shit. I was in Paris. You linked arms with me and pulled me towards the demountable ticket offices that were hiding off to the side.
"Come on, we're going up."
We stood in the line that curved around about six times, crammed into small spaces with people we didn't know. The smell of buttery potatoes and hotdogs floated over from the food vendors, as the night started to dominate the sun and slowly etched forward, getting closer and closer to the security check point. Eventually, we piled into the elevator and rose to the second floor, where we manoeuvred around people standing in large groups in the middle of the walkway, until we found a small space along the balcony. We leaned against the rail and looked out at the city. Tiny squares of light shone through windowpanes, street lights gave a full glow, illuminating the area, so you could just make out the cars from the hedges.
The city of lights.
This type of view was unmatched by the Shard, the Eye, Primrose Hill. Yet, I couldn't stay focused on the cityscape because my eyes were drawn to you. The wind whipped your hair around as your visions stayed focused on something off in the distance. You must've known I was looking at you, because you turned your head to face me. I looked down at your lips, your supple pink lips and before I could stop myself, I started leaning in. But you stopped me, putting your hand gently on my chest.
"No, don't do that," you said, tucking your hair behind your ear and looking back at the city. "That's how you ruin a memory. This trip to Paris will be nothing more than the time you made out with an Australian. Memories shouldn't be ruined by a momentary lapse in judgment. Besides, what happens if you kiss me, fall for me and then never hear from me again? Paris will be ruined for you. Focus on the fact that this trip is an adventure, getting you out of your comfort zone."
You must've known what was coming next and tried to make sure I didn't dive into the shallow end of a pool. The moment we got back to London, you vanished somewhere else, leaving your face to occasionally pop up on my phone with a little fun fact. Eventually, they stopped too.
Now you're nothing but a memory that's starting to fade around the edges.
But maybe that's all you are to people.
A storm that blows in as quickly as it left, leaving us with an anecdote and a thirst for adventure.