The Metro intimidated me.
I could probably figure it out, but not now. Not if I wanted to be on time. I was standing at the gaping mouth of one of it's many elaborate entrances, then turned against the flow of those who knew where they were going and made for the first cab I could find.
"Louvre, s'il vous plaît."
I was an hour early, wanting to get a sense of how busy it was going to be over there and where I might want to hang out to see and be seen. Pamplona's endless flow of bullfight tourists had me spooked and that was probably nothing compared to what I could expect outside a world-famous museum with the Mona Lisa and all.
As I got closer to the Louvre, I found a big construction site in the middle of the huge stone courtyard. An artist's rendering plastered on plywood showed everyone what was underway. A smaller picture of the architect was there too. Pei was his name and he was making a pyramid out of windows and steel, but now it was just large, rusty red steel beams positioned at it's furthest corners, braced at odd angles. Given all the heavy equipment, sand, and barricades, this pyramid was going to be huge. It also fucked things up. A lot of people were milling about, but now they are spread out on all four sides of the fenced-off site. Do I post myself in front of this pyramid or the main entry of the museum? What exactly is the front of a pyramid? Which exactly was the main entry to the museum? I could not risk missing her.
Maybe it was this sudden turn of events, but Paris was starting to look good to me, not the cold, manipulative tourist trap I had felt the night before. Now the sky was crystal blue, and the sun was warm and bright. It had actually turned out to be an absolutely glorious day. The thought that she wouldn't show up crossed my mind from the moment I woke up but this trip was built on the foundation of going for the experience and asking questions later.
I made for what I took to be the front of the museum, far to the right of rows and rows of people queueing up for tickets. Loud and anxious tour groups positioned themselves apart from others to stay organized, as entry was now going to be a bit more complicated. Big public spaces now have extra security because of problems with the Basque guerillas in the north. The nice weather made things hot and bright and so there were probably more people coming to the museum than usual.
I still had twenty minutes, but I scanned the crowd anyway, looking for the elegant, buxom redhead who made a point of secretly reaching out. She was like a spy.
I dressed the same as last night, hoping it would make it easier for Pascale to find me. The same dark blue jeans and a white cotton shirt opened a bit generously at the top to show a tuft of chest hair and a new tan, curtesy of my wandering around Pamplona, looking for a place to stay. I shaved, my hair was brushed back and my teeth were brushed to the point of a bit of blood in the sink. I'd brought three pairs of contacts with me on this trip and today I'd go with a fresh pair. My eyes were red enough from the night before and this just felt like an important enough date to warrant the new set.
By 2 p.m., my eyes were sore from staring in every direction, including into the sun, no longer directly above. The faces and bodies began to blur. She was only an hour late and I was afraid to move from where I was in case we would miss each other. That's how things worked. I focused on every woman. I was now beginning to question my own memory of just how beautiful she really was. There had been three splints of champagne after all.
She was either held up or maybe wandering about trying to find me. At 2:30, I began to think about the train back to Spain. Maybe this was just another impulsive mistake and once again, I'd acted like a teenager in heat, which was kind of what I was. I'd been with women in college and had my share of girlfriends over time, but this was a real woman. A very hot, sexy French woman who worked at a live sex club. I could wait.
At 3 p.m., I moved higher up the stairs, pushed upward by a group of German tourists taking my spot for a group photo. I moved around a tiny woman with a shopping bag to get a better vantage point but she awkwardly moved the wrong way and nearly knocked me backward. I muttered an apology in Spanish, since I'd been studying the language pretty intensely before the trip. It came instinctively.
"De nada," the woman replied, also in Spanish, moving out of the way.
I nodded and resumed my vigil. I was going to give this another hour. She said not to be late and I'd now been standing outside the Louvre for close to 3 and a half hours. My legs were getting stiff but sitting down was not going to help. There was an endless sea of people and many seemed to be in the process of finding others too. How fucking ridiculous this was! Meet me at the Louvre, scribbled on toilet paper. I could be looking for a nice tapas bar in Madrid by now.
The Spanish lady was positioned below me, but I quickly realized she was looking upward at me.
I looked at her again, not sure if I was in her way. She smiled and I nearly jumped backwards. It was Pascale!
But was it really? My god, is this the woman from last night?
Only one step below, she looked to be all of 5 feet tall. That woman last night was much taller, almost a foot taller, and looked deeply into my eyes from the moment she introduced herself at Papillion. She was wearing a pink, fluffy sweater that looked itchy and hid that lovely chest I thought about all night. She wore the big sweater at an angle, giving one incredibly pale shoulder a chance at some sun. Very French.
She was pretty, but a different kind of pretty. Her makeup was gone and it still wasn't clear that this was the same woman from the night before. Those lips were now thin and soft pink on a petite, freshly scrubbed face with lots of freckles about her pointy nose and heavy, dark red eyebrows that had that big, high arch that now seemed familiar. Now, in the bright light of day, it was apparent that they were drawn on, like Groucho's mustache.
