It was in Paris that I fell in love for the first time. It was before I ever met Mario, before I had met the charming Italian gondolier. No, it was in the city of Marie Antoinette and Napoleon Bonaparte that my heart first breathed. With thumping chambers, I took in the sensation that made humanity keep on living. I had wandered aimlessly through the Lourve, along the banks of the Seine, inside the Notre Dame. And it was here, underneath the tall, sloping shadows of the Eiffel Tower, that love first found me.
I had bought these new shoes, you see, from the Galleries Lafayette. They were designer, and cost me most of my holiday allowance. Ballet flats, with a strap across the middle—gold and teal and bronze and beautiful. I was so in love with them that I insisted on wearing them just there; for we were to go to dinner and then climb the Eiffel Tower at midnight. We found a little bistro down one of the alleyways, and I had creamy mushroom soup and a Floating Alaska dessert. It was ridiculously expensive; but ridiculously delicious. It was all I could do not to moan, such was the ecstasy of that meal. Full and content, we left the restaurant with the red and white checkered tablecloths, and walked the twenty minutes to the Eiffel Tower.
It towered directly in front of us; a structure made of cast iron and dreams. It represented everything about human determination and strength; it was imagination in a city that thrived on the heart. My heart seemed to beat a little faster the nearer and nearer I walked, nearing the almighty, fabled structure. What child had not grown up hearing about it? A dream was finally coming true, as twilight set and everything seemed to darken. From the shops on the sides of the alleyways emitted a warming glow, from the houses and the restaurants and the closing boutiques. My parents bought us each a croissant, and we wandered ever closer to our destination.
But these new shoes, beautiful as they wore, began to rub and ache. Blood blisters formed at the tip of my heel. I tried to ignore the stinging, itchy pain—ten more minutes, I said to myself, ten more minutes. But with five minutes left to go, one of the blood blisters burst. Fresh red stained my new shoes, and I gasped in pain—an unimagined sensation in the capital of freedom, beauty, truth and love. I halted, quickly pulling off the new ballet flats, one stained irreparably. I stood, barefoot in Paris, despondent. But above me twinkled the stars, the lights, and the Eiffel Tower. I halted, as my parents walked on.
Arms, then, strong and smelling of roasted coffee, swept me off my feet, suddenly. A heartbeat of panic; rushing, hyperventilated breath, but then I looked into his eyes that were as dark as the sky, and felt calm. His skin was a warm olive, tanned from working in the sun, and his five o’clock shadow resonated even in the dark.
“Hello,” he murmured, and his voice was melted hot chocolate. I whispered a breathy sigh back. “Where to?” I couldn’t respond; but I flickered my eyes up to the Eiffel Tower, illuminated in the dark. “Ah,” he rumbled. “The heart of Paris, of course.”
We walked in silence—or rather, he walked, and I floated. We didn’t speak, but I looked at him, and he straight ahead. When we walked into the courtyard beneath the grand structure, he placed me on my feet again. Smiling, he bent down, taking my hand and kissing it. “Enchante,” and he twirled around, floating off. I stood alone in the dark, beneath a monument of dreams, and felt my heart beat for what seemed like the first time.
