nobody. How is it even possible to be this bad at relationships? Now she was scaring men off. Paul didn't want to be anywhere near her, as if unemployment were contagious. In this case, maybe it was.
"What's wrong?"
Erin jerked her head up. She hadn't heard Sherri come into the room. Erin was sprawled out in a half-seated, half-reclined position on the chaise section of the sofa, a rumpled copy of People on her lap and an open pint of Ben & Jerry's on the seat beside her, spoon sticking out of the tub. Her box of stuff from her classroom was still sitting by the door where she'd dumped it when she came in a couple hours earlier. I'll deal with it later , she'd thought. It wasn't like her, but she also wasn't used to having time on her hands.
"Oh, Lord. Where to start." Erin moaned and then filled Sherri in on her day. When she got to the part about Paul calling to cancel their date, Sherri grabbed her phone and started tapping at the screen, pulling up a Girls' Guide to Paris restaurant map.
"Let's plan. That'll cheer you up."
Sherri smiled, and Erin couldn't help but smile back. They were leaving June 19—five days after her twenty-ninth birthday, and less than two weeks away.
"We'll always have Paris," she said in her best Bogart imitation, which wasn't very good, but it was what it was.
* * *
June 23: Date 4
Name: Michel*
Age: 26
Job: Marketing Copywriter
List: French a Frenchman (aka No.1: See Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower)**
I'm sitting in the cutest Internet café in the history of the world, sipping café crème with the world's most perfect chocolate croissant—excuse me, pain au chocolat—resting on a dainty plate beside it.
I don't know why I was worried about finding dates in Paris. I know it's a cliché, but this truly is the most romantic place I've ever seen, or imagined. I met Michel* on just our second day here. Sherri and I were walking in the St. Germaine district near our apartment—thanks to Sherri, we're staying in an apartment instead of a hotel, which is amazing. Sherri has a real talent for planning trips. We popped into a restaurant on a random side street because we'd been walking for hours and we were starving. This wasn't a tourist kind of place, and I know that because the menu was entirely in French, no English translations. Beside us was a table of businessmen—and when I say beside us, I mean we could have reached over and touched them. The place was tiny, with big plate glass windows overlooking a sidewalk terrace and green-and-white tile floors inside.
The men at the table were listening to us order in our broken French, but I doubt they'd have paid any attention to us if not for the fact that an American man was sitting with them. He said something about the salmon quiche Sherri ordered, and we started talking. He's from New York and is here working at a French ad agency for a couple years while he writes his first novel. Seated beside him was a cute, quiet man named Michel. Michel was, not shy maybe, just very French, and he didn't talk to us. But Chris, that was the American, turned his chair toward our table and by the end of lunchtime, we were practically one party. Chris was pushing Michel in my direction, and before we left Chris and I exchanged numbers.
Fast forward, and Chris actually called yesterday. We all met up again—me, Sherri, Chris, Michel, and Arnaud, a co-worker of theirs who wasn't at the restaurant. Chris brought his fiancée, Amber, and we all sort of paired off. Arnaud didn't talk much, but Michel was friendlier this time and seemed open to doing whatever we wanted to do. I couldn't believe it when he agreed to go up the Eiffel Tower with me, but he did. The lines were terrible because one of the elevators was shut down, so Sherri, Arnaud, Chris, and Amber decided to continue walking instead, and Michel and I walked up the 500 or so steps to the highest level of the tower. Thank God I'm in
"What's wrong?"
Erin jerked her head up. She hadn't heard Sherri come into the room. Erin was sprawled out in a half-seated, half-reclined position on the chaise section of the sofa, a rumpled copy of People on her lap and an open pint of Ben & Jerry's on the seat beside her, spoon sticking out of the tub. Her box of stuff from her classroom was still sitting by the door where she'd dumped it when she came in a couple hours earlier. I'll deal with it later , she'd thought. It wasn't like her, but she also wasn't used to having time on her hands.
"Oh, Lord. Where to start." Erin moaned and then filled Sherri in on her day. When she got to the part about Paul calling to cancel their date, Sherri grabbed her phone and started tapping at the screen, pulling up a Girls' Guide to Paris restaurant map.
"Let's plan. That'll cheer you up."
Sherri smiled, and Erin couldn't help but smile back. They were leaving June 19—five days after her twenty-ninth birthday, and less than two weeks away.
"We'll always have Paris," she said in her best Bogart imitation, which wasn't very good, but it was what it was.
* * *
June 23: Date 4
Name: Michel*
Age: 26
Job: Marketing Copywriter
List: French a Frenchman (aka No.1: See Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower)**
I'm sitting in the cutest Internet café in the history of the world, sipping café crème with the world's most perfect chocolate croissant—excuse me, pain au chocolat—resting on a dainty plate beside it.
I don't know why I was worried about finding dates in Paris. I know it's a cliché, but this truly is the most romantic place I've ever seen, or imagined. I met Michel* on just our second day here. Sherri and I were walking in the St. Germaine district near our apartment—thanks to Sherri, we're staying in an apartment instead of a hotel, which is amazing. Sherri has a real talent for planning trips. We popped into a restaurant on a random side street because we'd been walking for hours and we were starving. This wasn't a tourist kind of place, and I know that because the menu was entirely in French, no English translations. Beside us was a table of businessmen—and when I say beside us, I mean we could have reached over and touched them. The place was tiny, with big plate glass windows overlooking a sidewalk terrace and green-and-white tile floors inside.
The men at the table were listening to us order in our broken French, but I doubt they'd have paid any attention to us if not for the fact that an American man was sitting with them. He said something about the salmon quiche Sherri ordered, and we started talking. He's from New York and is here working at a French ad agency for a couple years while he writes his first novel. Seated beside him was a cute, quiet man named Michel. Michel was, not shy maybe, just very French, and he didn't talk to us. But Chris, that was the American, turned his chair toward our table and by the end of lunchtime, we were practically one party. Chris was pushing Michel in my direction, and before we left Chris and I exchanged numbers.
Fast forward, and Chris actually called yesterday. We all met up again—me, Sherri, Chris, Michel, and Arnaud, a co-worker of theirs who wasn't at the restaurant. Chris brought his fiancée, Amber, and we all sort of paired off. Arnaud didn't talk much, but Michel was friendlier this time and seemed open to doing whatever we wanted to do. I couldn't believe it when he agreed to go up the Eiffel Tower with me, but he did. The lines were terrible because one of the elevators was shut down, so Sherri, Arnaud, Chris, and Amber decided to continue walking instead, and Michel and I walked up the 500 or so steps to the highest level of the tower. Thank God I'm in
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