Trapped by the Mafia

13. The Accidental Tourist

I had seen the princess and let her lie there unawakened, because the happily ever after was so damnably much work.

― Orson Scott Card

When Novavik showed me the pictures of the French castle, excitement flooded me. Nope, it wasn't like the first time, but it was excitement after weeks of sulking.

I quit my job making portraits of happy families and couples, bought a plane ticket and boarded the plane to France.

Call it rush, call it crazy, but if I couldn't have Matteo, I had to get inside that castle and get my fix.

Paris. I can't believe it's Paris! I'm finally free of Menlo Park, CA; my parents' beige walls and inoffensive inquiries into the nature of my 'emergency'. This is enough to fill me to the brims with happiness, but also...it's Paris!

Paris is more than the icing on the cake, even if it's creamy, mouthwatering, three-inch thick layer of icing; even if I wanted my first trip to Europe to be Florence. I brush it all aside, because Paris is the cake.

The crowd at the Charles-de-Gaulle airport carries me away from the airplane in a bubbly wave of tourists, tourists, and more tourists. Good golly, it's May, and I'm in Paris!

The desire to do trivial things, like rolling my head all the way back till my neck hurt staring at the Eiffel Tower, rubbing shoulders at the Champs-Élysées, swiping a tear next to Notre Dame glues my sensible shoes to the tarmac, but I point them toward Rue St.Claire, the favorite layover street according to the guidebooks. For the first night when I need to get over the jet lag, I can splurge on a hotel there.

Despite nearly zonking out in the metro from the time difference, I freeze once I'm back on the Paris' streets. The backpack weighs down my shoulders, I'm dizzy, my skin itches like it's covered in hives after the cross-Atlantic flight, but I can't move an inch. Pedestrians dodging me speak French with its long, nasal, sing-song flow like it's the easiest thing in the world.

Like all good things in life since the funeral of Rosario Tangorello, I stubbornly hope that it has something to do with Scali. It's an idiot's hope, but I'm still pining, despite Scali's incognito avatar never gracing my inbox again. Even silent, he's in my life. It's like he's just outside my field of vision. If I would only turn around at the right moment, I would spot him leaning against his orange hell-car. Except I never turn around at the right moment.

I expel an exasperated sigh. What am I doing, standing in the middle of the street, daydreaming about Scali and irritating the French people? I must go to this hotel, and sleep, not dream about touristy things. My castle awaits me. Next to it, the exhilarations of a tourist aren't worth a single minute of my hard-earned trip. And Scali... It's past time to forget about Scali!

But how can I forget him in Paris from all places? The city where every lust is valid? The City of Light and vivacious art that hits my squarely brain just right.

I break all my resolutions, leave the backpack at the hotel and stroll along to the River Seine in gathering twilight. The clouds thicken. The sun, I had already seen set over the Atlantic, sets again. The air cools down, sending shivers through my spine.

I dry-swallow, suddenly panicking from the unfamiliar speech and people crowding me. Unkind glances stick to the back of my head. Figures zigzag into alleys when I meet their eyes. They are just rushing to get back to their hotels, I cajole myself. Look, they are jogging, sightseeing, making out...

Gosh, nobody is going to shoot me in France, I don't know anyone here. In faded jeans and a hoodie, with my limp brown hair matted by the flight, I probably look like a bum. It's a wonder the other tourists don't give me a wide berth.