A Little Romance

I’d avoided Paris since I was twenty-four, when a night of too many beers ended with me peeing a hotel’s feather bed. It seemed like the sort of city that deserved a better memory than that.

Nearly thirty years later, Paris finally got its revenge.

I don’t speak a word of French. When I get nervous, I sometimes default to bad Spanish. Still, everyone was kind. The city opened itself up to me in a way I hadn’t expected.

Then, somewhere between the museums, cafés, and wrong turns, I met someone.

On our second day, I found ourselves walking toward what looked like a lively Parisian protest, excited to see Liberté on handmade signs and French flags waving above the crowd. A few minutes later, we realized we’d accidentally joined an anti-vax march and hurriedly put on our masks before making our escape.

I remember a ridiculous arm-wrestling contest at a bear bar. My opponent was winning. Because Paris apparently had that effect on me, I turned to my brand new friend and told him to kiss me.

He did. I lost the match.

I remember standing beneath the Eiffel Tower during a downpour, holding each other so tightly that the rain, the tourists, and the city itself seemed to disappear.

Nearly thirty years after I peed in that feather bed, Paris finally got the last word.

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