SCENE ONE
"Some people don't appreciate the value of a good list."
“Mademoiselle!”
An out-of-breath man’s face crowds my phone screen as I slowly
turn, capturing the bustling street outside Gare du Nord. The sound
of the city is at a reasonable volume, so I can hear myself think.
Though, admittedly, all the French landing on my ears is super
jarring. I feel like a fish dropped into a huge new tank. Every voice
jolts me, because even though I know the language, I can’t make my
brain translate words fast enough to keep up yet.
The man’s face wobbles on the screen as my hand trembles with
excitement. I’m here!
“Uh, hi!” I say, lowering my phone, then lifting my cat’s-eye
sunglasses. “Or bonjour! You’re kind of in my shot.” I point to my
phone with what I hope is a charming smile. The man’s cheeks are
red from the heat, and his expression tells me he is uninterested in
my shot.
“Are you Whitney Curry?” His thick accent nearly swallows my
name.
“Yes! That’s me! The one and only!” I say, my stage smile turning
into a real one. I finally notice that he’s holding a letter-sized piece of
cardstock that has lycée international des arts à paris (lia)—
whitney curry printed across it. My name is bolded, and I’m
impressed by the fancy school insignia embossed at the top. I
wonder if he’ll let me have the sign for my memory book.
“I am Monsieur Guillaume Polignac, your ambassador from Lycée
International des Arts, Paris, here to escort you to the dormitories.”
He mops his brow with a handkerchief, and I immediately stick my
hand out.
“Enchantée—” I start, but Monsieur Guillaume Polignac cuts me
off.
“This way.” I try not to bristle at the fact that he ignored my attempt
at French. My nose wrinkles at the rudeness anyway, but since he is
my ride to my new home, I try to keep pace as I follow him up the
sidewalk. When we stop at a tiny blue car, he struggles to lift my
monogrammed trunk with the letters “W.C.” in spiraling white type on
the front and my brown leather valise, mumbling and probably
cursing to himself in French.
“What do you have in here—a whole person?”
“Oh, just the essentials,” I tell him brightly. “Costumes,
accessories, special lights. You know ... everything a girl needs to
thrive. There’s no such thing as being overprepared!”
Monsieur Guillaume Polignac raises his eyebrows at me before
giving the trunk one last shove to pack it inside. “Such strange
luggage.” “It’s vintage. Very rare.” I climb into the passenger seat and buckle
myself in, making sure to pull my braids out from under the seat belt.
My heart is thudding against my rib cage, and I do my best to remain
still. I want to do my “I’m excited” dance, but a quick glance at my
stone-faced driver curbs the impulse.
Monsieur Polignac does not ask any questions, nor does music
come on when he starts the car, which is just as well, as it would
only interrupt my daydreaming. Before we’ve even started moving,
my mind is buzzing. I am envisioning myself renting a car and driving
out to Château des Milandes, the old estate where Josephine Baker
spent much of her life with her children, on the weekends I have off
from my rigorous Parisian art school schedule. I need to stand where
she stood. I need to breathe the same air she did. I need to soak it
all up so that one day I might be as iconic as she was.
I’m trying to manifest greatness, but my phone is vibrating in my
pocket incessantly, making a grating noise against the car door.
Texts flood in from my mom, asking a thousand questions about the
flight and reminding me to turn on my location sharing. Another deep
inhale and exhale before I dig my phone out and turn it on do not
disturb.
Not right now, Mom. I’m drinking in Paris. I try not to think about
my mom’s anxiety about me traveling alone for the first time and all
the fights I had with her that led to this moment. I feel a little guilty
that I do consider texting Nana instead, wanting to share this
momentous occasion with at least one of them, but I ultimately
decide that updating them both will have to wait. I sit back in the seat
and think, I’m soaking up my new life far, far away from Mom’s
fussing.
Monsieur Polignac inches through traffic down a picturesque
street. You know, like the ones on postcards, with beautiful gardens
enclosed by iron lace and cream-colored buildings that could double
as elaborate cakes. We pass gorgeous glass storefronts spilling over
with perfumes and scarves and purses. Beautiful people window-
shop or clutch fresh flowers and baguettes. I even think I catch a
glimpse of a chocolate shop. Bicyclists navigate the paths. It all feels
like something out of a guidebook of Paris rather than the real thing.
Excitement runs like lightning through my body, but I feel a small pit
forming in my stomach. There’s so much to see. How will one
semester be enough time? “First visit to Paris?” Monsieur Polignac asks.
“Oh, oui,” I reply, slowly peeling myself away from the window.
“I’ve wanted to come here my whole life. It’s my nana’s favorite city.
She used to live here.” I rattle off Nana’s entire artistic career as a
relatively well-known performer, singing and dancing throughout
Europe and often in New York City in her twenties. But it’s not
enough to just be the granddaughter of the incomparable Diana
Curie. I’ve got to make a name for myself.
The legendary Whitney Curry.
Monsieur Polignac’s bushy eyebrows move up and down, and I
know I’ve probably lost him at some point in my speech as we wind
down another narrow street. But then his eyes have an unexpected
mischievous sparkle, and he makes a turn.
“Well, it’s out of the way, but everyone should see it as soon as
they arrive ... ,” Monsieur Polignac mutters to himself. After several
minutes in thick traffic, the buildings begin to fall away, and I can see
the river, the Seine, with boats drifting down it, toting tourists taking
photos. This is the river of songs and poems, the one that couples in
romance movies walk along together. My heart is so full after these
first few minutes in this city, and I’m suddenly sure I know what those
lovers in all the classic Parisian-set stories feel.
On the street, people walk, bike, drive, and ride scooters around
this busy area, making use of the many bridges to cross to the Left
Bank. I have an urgent need to hear the chatter of the boulevards, to
be out wandering the streets. I’m here to study, but I’m ready to be
among them, getting to know the city as well as I know my audition
materials. I consider leaving the window up so as to appear a little bit
saner, but one only arrives in Paris for the first time once—and it’s
imperative to do it right. I roll down the window and let the wind blow
across my face as I take pictures with the Polaroid I stuck in my
purse. The pit in my stomach starts to shrink, and I imagine it
spiraling away like a ribbon in the wind. It’s replaced with a molten
excitement that electrifies every vein in my body.
We arrive at a bridge with huge winged horses stationed on
pedestals on either side, looking infinitely statelier than any of the
numerous statues I’ve seen thus far. All of Paris looks elaborate,
elegant, but these lions are positively ornate, and my eyes greedily
drink them in. “C’est le Pont Alexandre III,” Monsieur Polignac informs me as we
join the line to make a turn to cross the bridge. I lean farther out the
window, trying to snap a photo of the sculptures before they are no
longer in view. Monsieur Polignac clears his throat. “You will want
film for this. ...” He points ahead and a little to the right.
My mouth drops open.
There, right in front of me, is the Eiffel Tower. Its base is partially
obscured by trees and buildings, but the iron structure is unmistakable. It’s tall, towering above the landscape, sunlight
glinting off it. Years of dreaming of this moment, and here I am,
zipping across the Seine in a car on the most beautiful bridge in the
world, looking at one of the most iconic monuments ever. And with
the window down, all I hear is snatches of French—and maybe bits
of other languages I can’t discern. Folks around the world want to be
where I am right now. Before I know it, my throat is tight, and my
eyes are itchy as they fill with tears.
I know Monsieur Polignac is looking at me with concern, but I can’t
hold it in. Tears are streaming down my face, and I hiccup like a
baby. I’m overwhelmed in the best way.
“Ça va aller, mademoiselle?” he asks, peeking at me from the
corner of his eye.
“Oui, ça va,” I reply. “I just want to remember this moment.”
And even though the picture I’m about to capture will never tell the
full story about how I feel in this moment, I lift my camera to my face
to capture it anyway.
***
“The school is just ahead, near la Sorbonne. We are in le Quartier
Latin. You will be but a short walk from the Seine,” Monsieur
Polignac says after a while. We’ve passed the Eiffel Tower, where I
got a few more pictures and cleaned my face with a handkerchief,
courtesy of my guide, who continues weaving us through the city. I
get the sense that he’s not taking the most efficient route, instead
allowing me to see a few more sights, including the edge of the
Luxembourg Gardens. We arrive in the fifth arrondissement, and I
see lots of school campuses and cafés. Young people who I assume
are students sit in front of the cafés, smoking and laughing with their
friends, textbooks likely shoved into bags under the tables and
forgotten.
There’s so much to see, and the prospect is thrilling, but I can
already feel anxiety swelling in my chest as I think about navigating these streets on my own. When I first started driving, Mom always
joked that I’d get lost going to school. She wasn’t wrong. ...
But that’s a Tomorrow Whitney problem. Today Whitney is still
experiencing her first Parisian car ride through intense Parisian
traffic. The views are definitely worth focusing on.
I pluck my paper map from my bag and trace my short—but
tastefully nude-colored—manicure over the different neighborhoods,
which coil around each other like a snail shell. I colored in each one
and annotated places I wanted to see. “Well, I can check ‘experience
the Eiffel Tower for the first time’ off my list!” And after placing the
annotated map on my knees, putting my journal on top of that, and
steadying my hand, I do.
“Is that how you will be seeing Paris?” Monsieur Polignac
chuckles. “By list?”
“Lists have never failed me. There’s nothing wrong with writing
things down and checking them off. Gives me a happy feeling.” I
wave my list gently in his direction.
“What do you have on there?”
I clear my throat and poke out my chest. I’ve been researching all
summer. Whitney Curry’s Epic Parisian Bucket List has been vetted
and obsessed over. Ironclad. Thrice approved, by three generations
of Currys—Nana, Mom, and moi.
I start to read:
“First was see the Eiffel Tower. Then, have a luxurious picnic
under it, with cheese and ...” I cough to cover up the word wine.
He laughs.
“Second, visit all the museums, especially the Louvre, of course.”
“Bien sûr,” he replies. “Third, spend an entire month investigating all the churches.
Notre-Dame, Sacré-Cœur, Sainte-Chapelle, et cetera ...”
“Et cetera ...” His eyebrow lifts. “Don’t forget that our beloved
Notre-Dame is still under construction from the fire. It is not yet open
to the public again.”
“Oh, right. I will just have to pay my respects from afar. I have
every major church marked.” I point at the elaborate map, a
supplement to the list currently spread out on my lap. “I have to see
the Moulin Rouge and learn to make macarons and éclairs. But I’m still investigating the best pastry workshop to attend. Then I’ll need to
stroll down the Champs-Élysées and stop at all of these shops.” I tap
my route. “I need to experiment with perfume and make my own and
get out to Versailles, and I have to visit a chocolatier ...” My mouth
can barely keep up with my list, causing me to nearly stumble over
that last item. One of my greatest loves in life—after vintage dresses
and midtwentieth-century theater—is chocolate. I almost don’t want
to taste it here; it’ll probably ruin chocolate for me for the rest of my
life.
“You’ve got a lot of things you want to do,” he says, giving me a
look that’s somewhere between bemusement and amusement.
Either way, I can tell he’s done hearing about my list even though I’m
not halfway through.
I am nothing if not prepared to have the best semester of my life,
starting with checking off everything on my Parisian bucket list. Most
of it is for research purposes (that just happen to be lifelong dreams),
which will inform the writing and execution of a fantastic one-woman
senior thesis show, something my nana would be proud of.
He glances over at me before turning left down a dead-end street.
The shrubbery falls away for a moment, and I can see a soccer field
filled with boys about my age chasing a black-and-white ball. One
boy sneakily cuts across the group and kicks the ball in the opposite
direction, causing the rest to yell in protest. The boy’s focused face is
disrupted by the barest grin, which causes me to smile. Monsieur Polignac notices me watching and finishes his thought:
“You will discover more if you wander. This is the type of place where
magic can be found in the most unlikely places. People miss it when
they run around the city with their guidebooks and websites.”
I nod and smile. Whatever.
He’s not a believer in the power of lists.
And he’s missing out.
I could never leave my study-abroad experience up to chance.
Magic is made, not discovered.
He points. “Et voilà!”
At the end of the cobblestone road is a massive building the color
of cream, with bright shutters, iron balconies, and rose-colored window boxes spilling over with flowers. A gingerbread house. That’s
the first thing that pops into my head. Something out of a fairy tale.
“Welcome to the Lycée International des Arts!”
I look up. The warm light from the window washes over us.
“Welcome home, Whitney Curry,” I whisper to myself. I take a
steadying breath and open the car door. ...
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