A Nice Fling is Hard to Find (2 page)

Just watching her is exhausting.

So tired. Eyes heavy. Think I might just close them for a

Still Wednesday, July 11, 9:15 A.M.

Joanna let me sleep for about a half a second before
deciding that waking me up with a French song was the way to go.

“Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, Dormez-vous?
Dormez-vous?”

Max and Kristin snapped pictures.

I changed into shorts, a fresh T-shirt and running shoes
(“Make sure you’re wearing comfy sneakers!” Joanna chirped), located the
bathroom down the hall, and washed up.

Now, the eleven of us are sitting on hard iron benches in a
shaded garden behind the hostel, waiting for the boys to join us. What’s taking
them so long? I thought girls were the ones who took forever.

I hear some laughter in the distance. And now the garden
door is opening . . .

OH. MY. GOD.

Ten Minutes later

We’re on one of those open-air buses going to the Eiffel
Tower so I can’t write for long, but I just want to say that I’ve found him! My
fling! His name is Pierre and he is
gorgeous
! He is our French
translator. He is eighteen, and he is tall and blond and has blue eyes the
color of the cloudless Parisian sky.

MUST STOP WRITING CHEESINESS.

But he is hot.

He walked into the garden behind the hostel, followed by
Mike, Tommy and the other Teens Tour boys. Suddenly it was my turn to drool.
Not that I was the only one. Oh, no, the other girls were all staring at the
embodiment of French perfection with equal adoration.

“
Allo
,” he said in an accent that made us all melt in
our comfy sneakers.

“Hello,” we responded. Max and Kristin snapped pictures.

“I am the Pierre, ze French translator. I am very pleased to
meeting you,” he said and smiled.

And we are even more pleased to meet you.

He went on to say that this was his second of four tours
this summer, and that he hoped this would be the best of them all.

“Dibs,” I whispered to Becca when I could find my voice.

“All right, you can have him,” Becca said, turning back to
her Texan.

Now I’m in the back row of the bus next to Becca, while
Tommy and the Texan, whose name is Harold, oddly (what kind of a cowboy is
named Harold?), are sitting in the row in front of us.

The boys want to know what I’m writing about.

None of your concern, American dweebs.

Pierre is sitting upfront with Joanna and Mike. When we all
introduced ourselves, he said allo and we fully had a moment of eye contact
where my heart nearly exploded. Bam! Of course since all the other girls were
likely also feeling the bamming, I’ll need to step up my game. Perhaps by not
stopping to write in my diary all the time so I look less like an anti-social
hermit and more like a friendly, outgoing international lady of fun.

1:00 P.M.

The sun is kissing my face, the wind is lightly blowing
my hair, and I can’t believe how lucky I am. I’m on the Eiffel Tower. ON THE
EIFFEL TOWER! Cool, huh? And it looks just like it does in Epcot!

Yes, I’m aware that sounds dumb, and no, I didn’t say it out
loud.

But really. It looks exactly like its replica. Except it’s
ten times bigger. And it took us four hours to get up here since the line for
the elevator was out of control. Next time I’ll just climb it.

Anyway. The city is laid out before me like a French
Monopoly board. Little cafés  and bicycles and small boxy cars line the streets
and the air smells like warm bread. I could stay up here forever. From this
height I’m not afraid of anything. Except falling.

Thursday, July 12, way, way too early. Like 5:00 A.M.

I am lying in my narrow bunk bed, which feels much higher
than it did when chose it, and I’m wide awake. Since Long Island is like six
hours behind, I don’t know why I’m up. But I’m glad to have a few minutes on my
own, since yesterday was beyond busy. After the Eiffel extravaganza we hung out
at this huge park called
Champ de Mars
and had a little
picnic of baguettes and cheese (really!).  Becca and I lay down on the grass
and listened to the sounds of the city as we watched the small white clouds
drift across the sky. Then we went over to the Right Bank on the other side of
town and were allowed the afternoon to explore. Becca wanted to go into all the
fancy couture stores on Avenue Montaigne.

“Do we have to?” I asked. “The salespeople will know we
can’t afford anything.”

“Then we’ll have to look the part,” Becca said, and pulled
matching black scarves from her purse and tied them around our necks. Then she
tied my hair into a twist and made me tuck in my shirt so I looked more
presentable and instructed me to keep my sunglasses on at all times. She is too
much. Anyway, of course the stores were all glossy and polished but the
salesladies smiled tightly and
Bonjoured
us so I guess we had them
fooled. Unfortunately, the Pennies had the nerve to follow us and then the
greater nerve to buy matching purses in the Louis Vuitton store. The two
hundred Euros I have as spending money won’t even cover a purse’s
strap
.

Later we all sat down for dinner. Tonight we had mussels and
fries. Of course I tried to sit next to Pierre, but it was like a mad dash to
the table. Seriously. He took the head, while me, the two Pennies, Abby and
even Max and Kristin acted like we were playing musical chairs and the music
had just been turned off, in an attempt to claim his neighboring sides. Abby
and the Canadians went left but the Pennies and I went right and ended up in an
unfortunate tangle for the seat.

I lost.

Booohooo.

I sat next to Becca instead. She intermittedly talked to me
between batting her eyelashes at Harold. Not that I blame her. He is definitely
good for a summer fling, if you wanted to go the American route.

Which I don’t. I am not going to waste my one trip away
doing something ordinary. And anyway, you would not believe how sexy Pierre
could make eating a French fry look. First he’s spear it with his fork, then
he’d lift it off his plate, and then he would slowly, oh so carefully, dip the
fry into his mouth and then gently bite the tip off with his teeth.

Tommy, on the other hand, who was sitting diagonal from me,
kept stealing fries off my plate whenever I wasn’t looking. Which was pretty
often, considering I kept ogling Pierre. Tommy had his own plate of fries, so I
don’t know why he found it necessary and amusing to take mine.

Even though Pierre spent most of dinner laughing and talking
to the ladies who had won the seat tug-of-war (Penny with a Y and
ginormous-boobed Abby), he smiled at me twice. Yes, twice. Which I think is an
excellent stat, considering. Plus, halfway through the meal, he looked at me
and asked, “Lindsay, did you like ze food?”

I did. But I like him even more.

It’s hot here in our room in the hostel. Too hot to sleep. I
wish I had brought a thinner sleeping bag. I wish I had taken the bottom bunk.

I wonder Pierre is still sleeping. What are the chances he’s
dreaming of me? Maybe I should sneak into the boys’ room and spray my perfume
on his pillow. Or, even better, maybe I should spray myself with said perfume.
My hair is smelling a bit like eau de feet. Perhaps I should use this extra
morning time to find the shower?

An hour later—still really, really early

I am back in my bunk bed. And I might need a shower from
the shower. The water pressure was pitiful and the temperature was beyond cold.
It kind of felt like someone was holding ice cubes over my head and letting
them slowly melt down my back. But I am refreshed! And now it is time to
beautify so Pierre will see that I am fabulous and want to grab me in his
French arms and kiss me passionately. Must find my guava-colored lip-gloss in
my makeup bag. It is my magic weapon. It brings out all the right coloring in
my skin and makes my lips look luscious. I think it might be a kissing potion.
It looks good on me know matter what I’m wearing, tanned, not tanned, whatever.
It totally worked on Adam, my first
—
and
last
—
boyfriend. We
dated last year. I applied it before our first date and we didn’t stop kissing
for four months. Until I broke up with him. I was getting too attached to him
and it was freaking me out. Better safe than sorry, right?

Okay enough about the past. Time to get out of bed. Maybe I
should wake up Joanna with a song. See how she likes it.

Later today

I am standing in Le Louvre. The most popular and amazing
museum in the history of museums. Despite the packs of tourists, it is eerily
quiet in here. People are speaking in hushed voices, like they’re in a church.
Everything is so gold and ornate.

At the moment, I’m desperately trying to get a look at the
big cheese herself. The Mona Lisa painting. Are you there, Mona? I can’t tell.
Because all I can see are other people’s heads.

I’ve been standing here for ten minutes waiting for some
space to clear up, but no go. Wait, wait, wait . . .

I just got a glimpse!

Honestly? She’s not that attractive.

Two hours later. . .

Tommy and I are taking a break. We’re supposed to be
walking around for four hours but it’s a little cramped in there, and I keep
getting accidentally pushed and stepped on and I started to feel a little
claustrophobic and panicked that I would break something on the first real day.
It’s not like I break something once a week or anything, but I’ve broken enough
bones to know that I’d like to try to stay in one piece if I can. I’ve broken two
toes, my index finger, and my right leg (in separate stair, locker, gym-class,
and bicycle-related incidents).

Anyway, Tommy wanted to check out the Louvre architecture
from outside, and I said I’d go with him. Becca and Harold don’t seem to mind
admiring other tourists’ heads. Or maybe they’re admiring each other instead .
. . .

I’m lying on the grass, getting some sun. Ah. The air here
smells so French. Like a mixture of spice, grass, and cigarette smoke.

Tommy’s around somewhere taking pictures. He has a fancy
camera he bought at a garage sale on his street. Unlike all the other cameras
on this trip, it’s not digital. He brought two dozen rolls of film and plans on
using the closet in his basement as a darkroom.

Now he’s taking pictures of . . . me? No, something behind
me. Pigeons?

I wish Pierre would come out here and say something to me in
French.

Friday, July 13, 8:00 A.M.

Dear TJ,

We are on the bus, on our way to Versailles. I’ve got my
own row today. Becca is sleeping in the seat across from me. She is sleeping
because . . . she was up all night playing tongue hockey with Texan Harold! Of
course she woke me post-hookup to share all the glorious details. They were
talking after dinner, and then she asked him if he wanted to go sit in the
garden, and then she kissed him. They started fooling around right on the
bench. And then they heard footsteps so they snuck into the women’s
toilette
s
(!!!!) and continued hooking up.

OK, I’ll admit it, I’m jealous. She is having a fling while
I am not. Not for lack of trying. But I can barely get two seconds alone with
Pierre. I sat next to him during breakfast, but he was absorbed in his
café
au lait
and cigarette. The smoking thing is not such a turn-on, but maybe I
could get him to quit. If only he would look at me.

I was wearing the guava and everything!

Perhaps I should start casting a larger fling net. Last
night, from our window, I spotted a group of cute boy backpackers hanging out
in the garden. I think they were Swiss or Austrian. Maybe I should make friends
with them?

11:00 p.m.

Dear TJ,

Joanna is about to turn off the lights, and I’m beyond
exhausted, but I want to tell you what happened today. Funny that I say you, as
though you are a person and not simply me reading this when I get home, if
ever. Although maybe you are my future daughter reading about my magical
vacation in France! Hello sweetie, I love you! Maybe I’ve married Pierre and he
and I have had French-American love children!

Not. That is the whole point of a fling. A fling is a man
you never see again. That’s what makes it exciting. Harmless. Stringless. No
one gets hurt if there are no strings attached, right? You kiss, and maybe go
to second and/or third base before saying goodbye forever. Perhaps you send
perfumed wish-you-were-here postcards in the months that follow but that’s as
far as it goes.

Anyway, it’s starting to occur to me that I may have no
chance with Pierre. After our trip to Versailles (all green landscaped gardens,
statues of angels, and a dizzying Hall of Mirrors), we took a late
afternoon/sunset cruise on the river Seine. Tommy was snapping artsy-type
photos of the Paris skyline and the grand cathedral of Notre Dame, while Max
and Kristin and the rest of the group were busy taking photos of the half-naked
people on the quasi-beach. It’s actually a man made strip of sand on the banks
of the Seine. And I say half-naked because some of the women were topless. And
some of the men were wearing . . . G-string Speedos. Who knew they even made
those?

The Pennies thought it was hilarious and kept pointing and
ogling.

“What’s the big deal?” Tommy asked, laughing, his camera
dangling around his neck.

“Those girls are so immature,” Becca said, wrinkling her
forehead in disgust. Earlier today she had spotted them twirling their pigtails
in Tommy’s direction. Ever since then she had taken to eyeing them with
suspicion.

“What’s the big deal?” I asked. “He deserves a fling too,
no?”

“Those girls are
not
worthy of my brother.”

Becca has some major big sister issues. The fact that she’s
only four minutes older than Tommy doesn’t faze her. When Janna Jacobs broke up
with him last year, Becca accidentally-on-purpose spilled her coke all over
Janna’s white linen capris. Tommy was not amused.