“I’M PRETTY SURE it’s just around this corner,” my mother says for the fourth time in twenty minutes. The sun has sunk a little, dipping behind the uneven roofs that zigzag the streets with shade, and my faith is diminishing rapidly. I’m anxious and thirsty, and my feet hurt—damn Lena and her Parisians-are-always-so-fashionable rant—because we’ve been walking in circles in some forgotten corner of the city, and I’m wearing ballet flats that leave angry red welts where the shoes meet my skin.
This can’t possibly be a good neighborhood. The giant three-story shops housing luxury brands that I actually recognized have now been replaced by narrow jewelry stores and discount clothing shops, their windows covered by bars. Instead of women with blonde hair and linen dresses who look like they’d be on their way to a brunch regardless of the time of day, we pass skinny street punks with anarchist symbols on their ratty T-shirts and boots that look heavier than I am, and also men with potbellies wearing stained tank tops. A few of the men call out lewd comments as we walk by—even without understanding French, that tone and cadence is unmistakable—but my mother keeps an unflinchingly determined look on her face. “Le Henrique,” she mumbles under her breath.
“Do you really think you would’ve gone to a place this far from the campus?” It’s a legitimate question, but it comes out of my mouth sounding like something between a whine and an accusation.
“Yes, I do.” She can’t hide the hesitation in her voice.
After two more wrong turns, my mother’s steps have gotten faster, verging on frantic. I try not to think about the open wounds developing on my feet.
“Pardon,” she says to a stranger with a mustache. She approached him so quickly that I do a double take when I hear her voice. “Le Henrique? Owned by an American?”
“Oui! Oui!” The man is enthusiastic in the affirmative. I don’t understand what he’s saying, but I watch the panic drain out of my mother’s face as he speaks. He talks for a while—longer than directions to a bar would merit, I can’t help but think—punctuating his words with severe hand gestures.
So we set off again, down a new street that I’m sure shouldn’t be there but that has somehow materialized in the last few minutes. Paris has become a twilight labyrinth. We continue making turns for a few more minutes before finding ourselves in front of a street painter we’ve definitely encountered before.
“This can’t be right,” my mom says, mostly to herself.
I check my phone for the hundredth time. “It’s almost three thirty. We really need to head to the Delacroix.”
My mom looks back at me as if my presence is a surprise to her. “We’re almost there,” she says. “And I really want you to see this place.”
I brace myself. “Mom. I don’t even want to go to this place, and I need to get to the museum. As it is, I’m only going to have, like, an hour there.”
She gives one last look around, searching for something—a landmark, perhaps, or a sign for Le Henrique that she’s hoping will magically appear on one of the shops we passed. It’s the same look she had on her face when I came home from school and she told me that she and Dad needed to have “a talk” with me. I don’t like seeing that face. I look around too, wondering if it’s possible that Le Henrique can expand in the space between two buildings like Number 12 Grimmauld Place in Harry Potter. But all I see is a fishmonger and a shoe-repair store. I watch my mom for a little bit longer. Finally, she gives a resigned shrug, and we give up the search.
It doesn’t take us too long to get to the Musée Delacroix. “See, we made it,” my mom says. “Look, there are still some people going in now.” And she’s right—under a banner bearing the artist’s face, a well-dressed couple make their way through the museum’s entrance.
We cross the courtyard—I shuffle as fast as I can in the medieval torture devices masquerading as my shoes—and enter the museum like marathoners reaching the finish line.
“Two adults,” Mom says as the man behind the desk straightens his collar.
“Ah, apologies, but we do not let patrons enter the museum with less than an hour to closing.” He doesn’t sound very apologetic.
“But we just saw two people go in,” I say in a voice louder than I intended.
The man’s expression doesn’t change at all. “They had—’ow you say—” Another girl in a museum employee uniform steps forward. “Re-ser-va-shuns,” she finishes for him.
“We’re perfectly happy just to spend fifty minutes here,” my mom says in full negotiation mode. “Please, my daughter has been dying to visit.”
The man shakes his head, but I don’t hear his response. I’m too busy fantasizing about using his own tie to strangle his stupid neck while the stupid girl behind him watches. She can make re-ser-va-shuns for the emergency room.
“Wait, hold on,” I say. “I’m sure we can figure something out. Just half an hour here.” Everyone goes silent; I’m not sure what I was interrupting. They look at me but say nothing. “But you’re closed tomorrow,” I say.
“Oui,” the man says.
My mother turns to look at me, and I can tell she feels guilty. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Really.”
I should appreciate her apology, but instead I fantasize about strangling her too.
“We came all the way to Paris,” I say, the desperation in my voice palpable. “I don’t know when I’m ever going to be back here again.” My plea falls on deaf ears.
“Let’s go.” My mother tries to put her arm around my shoulder, but I duck away.
“This is your fault!” I say. The museum employees are listening, but I don’t care. “If you hadn’t attempted to relive your youth and drag me around Paris looking for a place that probably closed a decade ago, I’d be in the Delacroix museum right now.”
“I know,” she says. “And I’ve apologized. I really am very sorry.”
“Why do you feel the need to control everyone and everything around you? This is my trip. I wanted to see this museum, but instead you manipulated me into following you on a wild goose chase. And now I’ve missed out on a great opportunity. And we’re leaving Paris, and I’m never going to be able to see the Delacroix museum.”
“You’ll be able to come back to Paris at some point in your life,” she says quietly.
“Yeah, some point in my life,” I parrot back at her. “How long as it been since you came back?”
“Hey. Do not take that tone with me. I apologized. These were unlucky circumstances. We just weren’t meant to visit the Musée Delpont.”
The employees and I all respond in unison. “Musée Delacroix.” I roll my eyes and storm out of the building, my mother following close behind. “I just want to go back to the hotel, okay?” I say, swinging back around to face her. “My feet hurt from walking in circles so much.”
Our cab ride back is so quiet that the driver puts on the radio. At times my mother looks over at me and takes a breath like she wants to say something, but instead she releases it in a sigh and stares out the window. I fantasize about a different version of this trip, one where I’m alone, where I went to the museum and met a tall stranger, probably a British boy studying at the Sorbonne, and we fell in love and went to La Belle Hortense together at night.
Maybe if things had gone differently today, I’d ask my mom to go back with me to the bar/bookstore this evening. But now my feet are swollen, fat baby cows in my shoes, and all I want to do is take a nap.