Day 2

LeAnne March woke early the next morning. Thank God, she thought to herself. Last day in Paris. As she dressed quietly, so as not to wake the other seven slumbering girls in the room, LeAnne realized that she had actually seen very little of the city in the three days she had been there, despite having traversed it through the middle the day before. LeAnne had learned quickly that, unless you had oodles of disposable income, this city was not kind to strangers. LeAnne frowned, remembering how eagerly she had been looking forward to these very moments and opportunities. But that was before. Things had changed.

Before leaving her room, LeAnne checked her bag to make sure all of her valuables were accounted for: boarding pass, passport, cell phone, iPod, and most important, cash. LeAnne thumbed through the small wad of colorful, crumpled bills, counting and recounting. 40 Euro. That was all there was left to keep her alive for the next nine days.

LeAnne replaced these items at the bottom of her purse, setting her remaining three sandwiches, now stale and crumbling, wrapped in napkins on top. Then, she gathered up her things and tiptoed from the room, dragging her awkward, heavy suitcase behind her.

Downstairs, the aroma of freshly baked bread and percolating coffee reached LeAnne before she entered the lobby. Her stomach gave a furious, painful lurch. In the small lobby, a basket of rolls was set on each of the two tables, along with a jar of purple preserves. The coffee pot was set on the check-in desk, brewing noisily.

LeAnne looked around. No one was present, but she could hear voices chatting from behind the door at the desk. LeAnne set upon the rolls, not bothering to butter either of the four she seized before greedily stuffing them in her purse.

Then, with the room still woefully absent of occupants, LeAnne took a chair at one of the tables, setting her food-heavy purse in her lap.

“Good morning!” a sing-songy voice called, causing LeAnne to jump. A plump woman with short, curly hair and a pink apron burst through the door behind the desk, wiping her floury hands on her frock. Her face was round and freckled, her hair a dark shade of auburn streaked with grey. “How did you sleep?” she asked cheerily. Her eyes were kind, her face grooved with smile lines.

“Good,” LeAnne replied, forcing a smile. “Thank you.”

“Would you like some coffee?” the woman asked with a heavy French accent. She wrenched the coffee pot from its holder and began pouring steaming coffee into a Styrofoam cup before LeAnne had time to respond. “Sorry,” she called as she poured, “that the breakfast is so small.” She smiled warmly at LeAnne and brought the cup of coffee to the table where she sat. LeAnne shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “We work with modest means.”

Again, LeAnne forced a smile, but graciously accepted the beverage from the smiling, pleasant woman. The woman didn’t leave immediately, but stood and stared happily at LeAnne. The silence began to weigh awkwardly between them. “So,” LeAnne offered in an attempt to keep the conversation moving, “how did you know I spoke English?” LeAnne took a sip of coffee.

The woman laughed. “Oh, I didn’t,” she admitted, “but it’s always a good guess. All children in Europe have to learn English, so most young people who come through here can at least remember some. But you, you are American, no?” LeAnne nodded. “I thought so,” she said proudly. “Your accent is very American.”

LeAnne wasn’t sure whether this was a compliment or not, but mumbled, “Thanks.”

“So,” the woman pressed, “when is your flight?”

LeAnne was mid-sip, the Styrofoam cup still pressed to her lips, but she managed to raise her eyebrows inquisitively.

“Your luggage,” the woman said, thumbing in the direction of the door, where LeAnne had placed her awful purple suitcase. “You are going back to America, no?”

The woman casually took a seat across from LeAnne. “Oh,” LeAnne replied, fidgeting nervously with the cup. God, if only it were true. “No, actually. I’m going to Ireland, first.”

“Ahh,” the woman crooned. “Ireland. So you are touring Europe?”

LeAnne shrugged.

“Well, it should be a pretty good adventure, no? Who are you traveling with?”

LeAnne eyed her suspiciously. The woman’s face betrayed no traces of mischief, but nevertheless, LeAnne responded, “A group of people from my university. They’re staying at a hotel across town. We’re all meeting up at lunch today.”

The lie must have been convincing because the woman responded, “Ahh, good. Good. I always worry about young ladies traveling alone. Me wi, the crime that you hear of these days.” She scoffed in disgust, “Young girls have been going missing all over Europe, sold into the sex trade, so the authorities say. It seems like almost every week, you hear of more. Se horrible, no? You must promise me you will be careful, wi? Stay with your group all the time?”

LeAnne stared at the woman with a blank expression and nodded slowly. “Tre bien!” the woman grinned, patting LeAnne’s hand. Standing up from her chair, she continued, “Now, I am sorry, but I must get back to work. Do you need directions to the airport?”

“Uh,” LeAnne thought for a moment, trying to remember. “Yes, please.”

The woman happily scribbled directions and a small, rough map on a paper napkin for LeAnne, and then left through the door behind the desk. By that time, a few groggy, hung-over travelers had begun stumbling down the steps. LeAnne decided to sit and eat a proper breakfast before leaving for the day, slathering a warm, hard roll with butter and grape preserves. The effect of the food was instantaneous. The beast that was roaring within her became more quiet, not completely suppressed, but more manageable.

After two rolls and a cup of coffee, LeAnne departed Woodstock Hostel. Her flight wasn’t until 6 that evening, leaving her plenty of time to, well, she wasn’t exactly sure what she was supposed to do. After listening to the plump woman’s warning, LeAnne was beginning to wish quite urgently that her lie had been true, that she really did have a group of peers waiting for her just across town. It wasn’t as though she had had a choice, after all, and she had tried several times to recruit willing bodies to join her on her traverse to Ireland. There had been, however, no takers.

Reviews

[Amanda]

Please ignore the misspellings in French. I will edit them later.