Sparks - Wendy Higgins Page 0,95
long while, I felt the glow of true happiness. The kind that came from knowing what my gifts were and being willing to use them. Nothing and nobody were holding me back. I could do whatever I wanted. I was perfectly capable.
That night, I slept like a queen.
The next four days were like a living dream. I saw the Eiffel Tower. I gazed up at Notre Dame. I window shopped on the luxury avenue of Champs-Elysées and bought the most delectable macarons. I literally stopped mid-sidewalk to moan as I bit into the pistachio macaron and it melted in my mouth. A handsome Frenchman had seen my bite and reaction and bounced his brows.
“It’s good, oui?”
“Oui,” I said, laughing and covering my mouth. I think he would have chatted me up if I’d let him, but I smiled and kept going.
I passed another small bakery with a flyer on the window about one-time baking classes given in English. I went in to inquire. Ten minutes later I was back on the street, having signed up for an éclair-making class on my last day.
But my favorite adventure had been browsing the all-English bookshop, called Shakespeare and Company, where I chose two new novels, and then went down a side street that Rhea had told me about. It was off the beaten path. She said the street was filled with small restaurants that did three course meals on the cheap. The street was dim and crooked like something from a movie. Since I was nervous, I slipped into the very first restaurant and was seated.
The restaurant was dim with low ceilings, stone walls, and candlelit ambiance. My dinner came in three courses and I felt like I was eating a homemade meal at a friend’s house. In that moment, in that place, I was content. Yes, my heart was broken. It would be broken for a while. But on a soul level I knew I would heal.
The couple who sat next to me ordered escargot as their appetizers. I heard them speaking English. I shouldn’t have stared, but it was enthralling to watch them with the snails. The man smiled at me. I smiled back and looked away.
“Have you tried it?” he asked. The waiter was there to take my plate away.
“No,” I said. The man spoke in quick French to the waiter, who cast me a smile and rushed off. I wondered what that was all about. Moments later, the waiter was back with a tiny plate and single escargot and mini fork. He set it before me and my heart jumped. I held up my hands. “No!”
But the man, woman, and waiter were all smiling and nodding. Oh, my gosh. Then two other employees came over. They all chatted and smiled, hands on hips, waiting to see this American girl taste her first snail. Not an audience!
“Like this,” the man said. He showed me how to do it in slow motion, digging that little fork down in there. I copied him and felt a little thrill when the piece of meat came out on the tines, covered in garlic butter. Everyone cheered and I had to laugh.
“Bottoms up!” The man took his bite and I let out a breath.
Here goes nothing. I put the bite in my mouth and was pleasantly surprised by the burst of salty garlic and herb flavor. I expected it to be super chewy, but it was tender.
“Mm!” I declared, and everyone cheered. And then there was an aftertaste like the muck at the bottom of a lake, but I wouldn’t mention that.
“Merci,” I told them all through laughter. When the attention was off me, I snapped a picture of the single snail shell with the fork beside it. Later I’d caption it: I ate a snail.
There was so much more I wanted to do but I ran out of time, and the baking class had taken the last of my money. The days flew by, leaving me pleasantly exhausted every night. And for the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt whole.
My final night in Paris. I had just stepped in the tiny lobby of my hotel, practically skipping with the box of eclairs in my hands, when my phone rang. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen as I stepped into the elevator. My heart nearly stopped.
Shawn. His wedding was supposed to be yesterday. I thought it an apropos day to visit the catacombs. Several times the wedding