rushing back.
I inhaled deeply as I left the white brick tunnel of the Alma-Marceau stop and climbed the stairs up to the street. I was always struck by the distinctively sweet smell that was Paris. Fresh-baked bread intertwined with the bouquets from the flower vendors on the corners and with subtle notes of tobacco smoke that blended with the pungent fumes of the Metro and the overlying scent of the towering chestnut trees. It was uniquely Paris, and breathing the sweetness in, much like I had the brine- and peat-laced aroma of Ireland, brought me roaring back to my time here seven years ago.
I walked the three blocks to the quiet neighborhood street where I had rented a tiny studio apartment. The sidewalk was crowded, but I didn’t mind. Despite the lack of my phone or my luggage, there was something so magical about being in the City of Light that I just couldn’t be glum.
I wound my way past a Franprix, a boulangerie, a tobacco store, and a pharmacie, all with their awnings out. I noted the window displays, as I suspected I’d be doubling back to buy necessities, since I didn’t even have deodorant. Finally, on the corner, Café Zoe appeared. I remembered from the instructions in the rental agreement that I was to pick up the keys at the café, because Zoe Fabron owned the café and the apartments above as well.
The circular tables of the small eatery spilled out onto the sidewalk, arranged in rows facing the street, as if watching the world go by was the preferred way to enjoy a meal. I ducked to the side as a waiter carrying a full tray on his shoulder came out the wide door of the restaurant. Dressed in black pants and a white shirt, he had a burgundy half apron tied around his waist. The same pinot noir color was the accent color for the window trim. It all looked very put together.
An older gentleman with white hair and a cane hooked on his forearm held open the door for me. I said thank you in French—“Merci,” not the hardest word in the language—and stepped inside. Although a touch warmer than Ireland, the day was still brisk, and I appreciated the heat of the café.
The interior was traditional, with a black-and-white tile floor, burgundy half curtains on the windows, and small silver café tables and chairs with rounded backs, filling all the available space. The walls were papered in a lovely black-and-white toile with repeating scenes of ladies in big gowns and gents in knee-length breeches, strolling under tall trees, riding horses, or playing with puppies. Ornately framed mirrors were hung at random, along with vintage posters of Paris. A service counter was at the far end of the room, bracketed by two large pastry cases, one of which was filled with croissants and breads and the other with enormous meringues, cream tarts with fresh raspberries, and several bowls of chocolate mousse decorated with chocolate curls.
I felt my stomach rumble, and I put my hand over my belly, hoping no one else had heard. I realized I hadn’t eaten since I’d left the west counties of Ireland that morning, and that had been a quick and rather soggy sandwich while making a gas stop on my way into Dublin.
The woman taking orders behind the counter was tall and slender. Her dark skin was complemented by the pale-blue blouse she wore with the collar up and the sleeves rolled back to her elbows. Her shoulder-length braids were held back with a wide white headband of eyelet lace, which framed her heart-shaped face becomingly. Her smile was genuine as she gave her customer their change and called their order over her shoulder, back into the kitchen. The chef, who was just visible through a small window, was wearing a toque with many pleats and chef’s whites, and he waved a hand, letting her know he’d heard her.
As I approached, I watched the woman assess the happenings in the café with a sweeping glance, and I noticed she had an air of command to which the rest of the staff deferred. Perhaps this was Zoe?
“Bonjour, vous désirez?” the woman asked.
“Bonjour,” I answered and promptly ran out of French. I shrugged and added, “I’m Chelsea Martin. Are you Zoe Fabron?”
The woman clapped her hands and smiled in delight. Her English had the most beautiful lilt as she said, “I am. And you are my guest for apartment two, oui?”
“Yes,” I