Laura Bradbury - My Grape Paris

The Winemakers Trilogy

A Vineyard for Two

Grape Series

My Grape Year

My Grape Paris

My Grape Wedding

My Grape Escape

My Grape Village

Other Writings:

Philosophy of Preschoolers

Published by Grape Books

Copyright 2018 Laura Bradbury

Kobo Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For more information, contact Grape Books, 1218 St. David Street, Victoria BC, V8S 4Y9, Canada.

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9959173-0-9

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9959173-1-6

Visit: www.laurabradbury.com

I dedicate this book to my incredible liver donor, Nyssa Temmel. Without your courage and selflessness I would benot to put too fine a point on itdead. Every single one of the bonus days you gave me is a gift.

But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong, nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY , A Moveable Feast

The only proof I had that I was supposed to be there in Paris was my temporary student visa and a badly photocopied letter from some unidentifiable administrative office of the Sorbonne.

I scanned the letter I clutched in my sweaty hand. It was the last week in August, but the oppressive humidity made it feel as though we were in the tropicsthe perfect weather to be sunning ourselves in Biarritz or Brittany, not tramping around the dog poop-festooned streets of the 5th arrondissement of Paris.

What I could decipher from the letter stated that, after my arrival in France, I should contact my exchange year advisor, Professor Alix Renier-Bernadotte, at the address provided. Just an address. No telephone number or any other contact information. She better be at home.

We found Professor Renier-Bernadottes apartment a few streets away from the building where I would be taking at least half of my classes. She lived on a narrow, cobblestoned street, just off a much larger street.

The building rose from the sidewalk in the stately style that was synonymous with Haussmann, the designer of modern Parisgray stone and large symmetrical windows, fronted by ornate ironwork so Parisians wouldnt tumble out onto the street when opening their massive wooden shutters in the morning.

I was already intimidated by this Parisian professor who was supposed to help me register at the Sorbonne, and I hadnt even met her yet.

Franck and I had arrived that morning after more than fifteen hours of travel from Vancouver. This Inter-University Exchange gigI was being swapped with a French student who would study for a year at my school, McGill University in Montreal, while I studied at the Sorbonnewas already turning out to be more challenging than it looked on paper.

I studied the name tags stuck in the brass buzzer plate mounted on the wall of the apartment building. They were blurred by age and rain. Does that look like Renier-Bernadotte to you? I asked Franck, who was lighting a Gitanes. I didnt know how he could smoke in that heat, let alone Gitanesthe cigarette equivalent of pungent Munster cheese.

He took a deep drag and leaned forward to peer at the name I was pointing at. It looks to me like it says Rognon-Betterave. Kidney-Beets. He rubbed his stomach thoughtfully. That gives me an idea. If we find a brasserie, they might have veal kidneys in Madeira on the menu. Theyre a classic dish at Parisian brasseries, tu sais.

I made a gagging noise.

You think you dont like them because youve never tried them.

I know I dont like Gitanes, and I havent tried them either. I cant get past the smell. Same thing with kidneys.

Completely different. Kidneys are extremely good for you as well as delicious. Smoking is a filthy habit I need to stop.

At least we agree on that, I said, then nodded at the buzzers. So, should I buzz Professor Kidney-Beets here?

Franck shrugged. You know my opinion. You should wait until your first day of school. All of Paris goes on vacation in August. Havent you noticed how empty the streets are?

Still

I doubt shes here, and even if she is, she wont answer her buzzer. I warned you not to expect the same welcome that McGill provides to the incoming French students.

That was a shame, because at McGill, the incoming French exchange students were treated like royalty. They were appointed a student chaperone as soon as they arrived in Montreal to help them with everything from finding accommodation to registering for courses to meeting other students.

A whole week of special events were put on for the exchange students freshly arrived at McGill. There were scavenger hunts so they could familiarize themselves with the campus and mingle with others, live concerts, and drinks events so their livers could adapt to Canadian beer and the cheap Czechoslovakian wine from the dpanneur. And meetings were set up with various academic advisors so they would have all their questions answered and their timetable completely in order before the beginning of term.

So far, there had been no welcoming committee for me at the Charles de Gaulle airport on our arrival, and the only contact name I had been given was Professor Kidney-Beets, supposedly at this address. As a result, I was pulsing with desperation to connect with her. She was my only shot at feeling less disoriented.

I have to try, I said. I buzzed on the buzzer.

Nothing.

I buzzed again. Then again.

Franck raised one eyebrow at me. Does the state of that name tag beside her buzzer look like that of a person who wants students to find them?

Dignified silence was the only possible response to my boyfriend.

I peered up to the two windows on the fourth floor, where Professor Kidney-Beetss apartment was supposed to be if we had indeed chosen the right buzzer. A curtain twitched and a face dominated by a large pair of glasses glanced down, then the curtain drew shut again.

Shes up there! I shouted in English, even though Franck and I spoke French together most of the time. I saw her! I pointed, just in case Franck misunderstood.

I went back and buzzed the buzzer five more times so there could be no doubt I wanted to see her. I was going to buzz it a sixth time, when Franck reached out and stilled my hand. Ever heard of getting off on the wrong foot? I dont know who this woman is, but I would bet that its not a prudent idea to piss her off before the school year even begins.

I stamped my foot and buzzed again three times. The curtain above didnt even twitch.

Franck took me by the shoulders and pulled me back from the buzzer. Im not sure how it is in Canada, but being so persistent when somebody clearly does not want to answer their buzzer is considered rude in Paris, he said gently.