“In between the rue St. Michel and the rue St. Jacques.”
I shoot him a look.
“Rue means ‘street.’ And we’re stil in the Latin Quarter.”
“Stil ? But we’ve been walking for—”
“Ten? Fifteen minutes?” he teases.
Hmph. Obviously Londoners or Parisians or whatever he is aren’t used to the glory of car ownership. I miss mine, even if it does have trouble starting.
And no air-conditioning. And a busted speaker. I say this, and he smiles. “Wouldn’t do you any good even if you did have one. It’s il egal to drive here if you’re under eighteen.”
“You could drive us,” I say.
“No, I couldn’t.”
“You said you had a birthday! I knew you were lying, no one—”
“That’s not what I meant.” St. Clair laughs. “I don’t know how to drive.”
“You’re serious?” I can’t help the evil grin that spreads across my face. “You mean there’s something I know how to do that you don’t?”
He grins back. “Shocking, isn’t it? But I’ve never had a reason. The transit systems here, in San Francisco, in London—they’re all perfectly sufficient.”
“Perfectly sufficient.”
“Shut up.” He laughs again. “Hey, you know why they cal this the Latin Quarter?”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Centuries ago, the students at La Sorbonne—it was back there.” He gestures with his hand. “It’s one of the oldest universities in the world. Anyway, the students were taught in, and spoke to each other in, Latin. And the name stuck.”
A moment of reserve. “That was it? The whole story?”
“Yes. God, you’re right. That was pants.”
I sidestep another aggressive couscous vendor. “Pants?”
“Rubbish. Crap. Shite.”
Pants. Oh heavens, that’s cute.
We turn a corner and—there it is—the River Seine. The lights of the city bob in the ripples of the water. I suck in my breath. It’s gorgeous. Couples strol along the riverbank, and booksel ers have lined up dirty cardboard boxes of paperback books and old magazines for browsing. A man with a red beard
strums a guitar and sings a sad song. We listen for a minute, and St. Clair tosses a few euros into the man’s guitar case.
And then, as we’re turning our attention back toward the river, I see it.
Notre-Dame.
I recognize it from photographs, of course. But if St-Etienne is a cathedral, then it is nothing, NOTHING compared to Notre-Dame. The building is like a
great ship steaming downriver. Massive. Monstrous. Majestic. It’s lit in a way that absurdly reminds me of Disney World, but it’s so much more magical
than anything Walt could have dreamed up. Mounds of green vines spil down the wal s and into the water, completing the fairy tale.
I slowly exhale. “It’s beautiful.”