good shape.
I maybe wouldn't have called this a "date," per se, since it was impromptu and since, technically, it was more of a group outing, but being alone with a man on the Eiffel Tower counts. It just does. Especially since I kissed him at the top, with the sun just setting and all of Paris spread beneath us like a vision from a dream. And French men—well, let me just say I can see why kissing was named after them.
On this date I scratched not one, but two items off my list, because in the course of the evening I definitely held a full conversation with Michel in French, broken French though it was. Thank God for slave-driving Ms. Bevel in advanced conversational French in high school. I'm sure Michel and Arnaud got a good laugh at us clumsy American girls later, but to me the day was as perfect as a day can get. Paris gets under your skin. It can make you forget your problems, your insecurities, your own name.
Erin clicked "submit post" and took a sip of her coffee. Across from her, Sherri was playing on her phone, probably reading restaurant reviews or checking museum hours. In four days they'd seen more new places than Erin felt she'd seen in her entire life. They'd been to the Louvre, to Notre Dame, to the Tuileries, and to Musee de L'Orangerie to see the panoramic paintings of Monet's water lilies hanging there. They'd walked what seemed like the full length of the Seine and crossed all the most beautiful ponts , including the Pont des Arts with its thousands of padlocks representing the eternal love of tourist couples from across the globe, an eyesore in a city more beautiful than any picture or guidebook could possibly convey.
Love was everywhere here, but it was love of the city itself, not romantic love, that was pervasive, that hung in the air and painted its own impression on the picturesque streetscapes. No wonder it was the city of light, Erin thought. Its luminosity came from within and filled up everyone who came here. She never wanted to leave.
"What do you want to do next?" Sherri asked, ripping into her reverie.
"Mmmm," Erin said, absorbed suddenly by the right column of the computer screen, which contained a few widgets and thumbnail photos of the readers who'd signed up to follow her blog. "Holy cow!" she said. "I'm up to 957."
Sherri jumped up and peered over Erin's shoulder at the screen. "957 readers?" she asked. "Oh my gosh."
"Yeah," Erin answered, dazed. "Oh my gosh."
When they'd left for France four days earlier, her subscriber total was at 517—no doubt because of the scandal she'd left in her wake at Northside High School. She figured at least 512 of those readers were students at the school or their friends. She wasn't sure, though, how her subscriber base was building from there. She was posting every couple of days without fail. When she didn't have a date to report, she wrote about her thoughts on romance and relationships and, when she was really desperate for a topic, she wrote snarky snippets about her dating past.
"You're going viral," Sherri said, sounding awed.
"I'd hardly say 900 people equals going viral. I still can't believe this though." She clicked into her settings menu and looked for her reader stats. Her eyes bugged in their sockets when she saw she'd had more than 3,000 unique visitors so far this month. 3,000 people had heard about her blog and read her words? She blinked hard and looked again, as if she might have imagined an extra digit.
How's this even possible?
People were commenting, though, and a lot of them were strangers. She'd been trying to post a response to every comment, but now she wasn't sure she'd be able to keep it up. At least not while traveling. Of course, when I get home I'll have plenty of time. She could make it a full-time job, since she didn't have one at the moment.
Erin sipped thoughtfully at her tepid milk-and-coffee mixture and picked up the remains of her pastry, closing her eyes as she chewed the last bite. She
I maybe wouldn't have called this a "date," per se, since it was impromptu and since, technically, it was more of a group outing, but being alone with a man on the Eiffel Tower counts. It just does. Especially since I kissed him at the top, with the sun just setting and all of Paris spread beneath us like a vision from a dream. And French men—well, let me just say I can see why kissing was named after them.
On this date I scratched not one, but two items off my list, because in the course of the evening I definitely held a full conversation with Michel in French, broken French though it was. Thank God for slave-driving Ms. Bevel in advanced conversational French in high school. I'm sure Michel and Arnaud got a good laugh at us clumsy American girls later, but to me the day was as perfect as a day can get. Paris gets under your skin. It can make you forget your problems, your insecurities, your own name.
Erin clicked "submit post" and took a sip of her coffee. Across from her, Sherri was playing on her phone, probably reading restaurant reviews or checking museum hours. In four days they'd seen more new places than Erin felt she'd seen in her entire life. They'd been to the Louvre, to Notre Dame, to the Tuileries, and to Musee de L'Orangerie to see the panoramic paintings of Monet's water lilies hanging there. They'd walked what seemed like the full length of the Seine and crossed all the most beautiful ponts , including the Pont des Arts with its thousands of padlocks representing the eternal love of tourist couples from across the globe, an eyesore in a city more beautiful than any picture or guidebook could possibly convey.
Love was everywhere here, but it was love of the city itself, not romantic love, that was pervasive, that hung in the air and painted its own impression on the picturesque streetscapes. No wonder it was the city of light, Erin thought. Its luminosity came from within and filled up everyone who came here. She never wanted to leave.
"What do you want to do next?" Sherri asked, ripping into her reverie.
"Mmmm," Erin said, absorbed suddenly by the right column of the computer screen, which contained a few widgets and thumbnail photos of the readers who'd signed up to follow her blog. "Holy cow!" she said. "I'm up to 957."
Sherri jumped up and peered over Erin's shoulder at the screen. "957 readers?" she asked. "Oh my gosh."
"Yeah," Erin answered, dazed. "Oh my gosh."
When they'd left for France four days earlier, her subscriber total was at 517—no doubt because of the scandal she'd left in her wake at Northside High School. She figured at least 512 of those readers were students at the school or their friends. She wasn't sure, though, how her subscriber base was building from there. She was posting every couple of days without fail. When she didn't have a date to report, she wrote about her thoughts on romance and relationships and, when she was really desperate for a topic, she wrote snarky snippets about her dating past.
"You're going viral," Sherri said, sounding awed.
"I'd hardly say 900 people equals going viral. I still can't believe this though." She clicked into her settings menu and looked for her reader stats. Her eyes bugged in their sockets when she saw she'd had more than 3,000 unique visitors so far this month. 3,000 people had heard about her blog and read her words? She blinked hard and looked again, as if she might have imagined an extra digit.
How's this even possible?
People were commenting, though, and a lot of them were strangers. She'd been trying to post a response to every comment, but now she wasn't sure she'd be able to keep it up. At least not while traveling. Of course, when I get home I'll have plenty of time. She could make it a full-time job, since she didn't have one at the moment.
Erin sipped thoughtfully at her tepid milk-and-coffee mixture and picked up the remains of her pastry, closing her eyes as she chewed the last bite. She
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