Jack told me one morning in August he was going to surprise me. I was ordered to bring my passport and my purse, and that was it.
He came to pick me up in the Lambo at the very early hour of 7am, and I knew we were doing something special. Jack was never up before ten if he could avoid it, and I always made it a rule never to call him before 11, just in case. It was a Friday, and we drove through the London traffic, parking in a private garage near St Pancras station.
The next thing I knew we were lining up for the train, getting into our first class seats.
“Where are we going?” I asked, but I was pretty sure I already knew the answer, given the big Eurostar logo on the side of the train.
“To a city far more romantic than London. Don’t worry, I’ll have you back home before your bedtime.”
For two and a half hours Jack and I talked, our hands intertwined as we looked out at first the English countryside, then the darkness of the chunnel, then I got my first ever look at France. It was similar to England, but different somehow at the same time. The style of the homes were different, the terrain was flatter, it wasn’t quite as rolling, and it seemed older. Like people had been living here for a lot longer, like the buildings had a lot more to say, like the earth had held a lot more people on it.
We passed through the odd town, but slowly everything got more and more developed, until we sped into Paris.
I had purposefully skipped breakfast on the train, and seeing as it was only 10am, there was still plenty of time to eat in this city known for its food.
“Should we stop somewhere for breakfast?” I asked Jack, and he nodded.
“Yeah. We just have to take another couple of trains and then we’ll find somewhere.”
I followed Jack as we went from Gare du Nord to Louvre, taking one RER train and one metro. I didn’t pay total attention to which stations exactly, but I grew up in New York. If I could read the subway maps there, I knew I’d have no problem in Paris if I needed to.
As soon as we stepped out of the station Jack led me a few blocks away from the giant glass pyramid, and found us a cute little boulangerie, where we ordered chocolate croissants to have for breakfast.
It was hands down the greatest thing I’d ever eaten.
“We’re definitely coming back here before we go so I can stock up on these,” I declared as I savoured another bite of the melt-in-your-mouth pastry. “I can’t believe I lived so close to these things this whole time in London and have never tried one.”
Jack laughed. “Yeah, if there’s one thing the French kick our ass at, it’s cooking. And especially pastry. Whenever I come back from Paris I take one look at neenish tarts and just go “ugh, really?””
With breakfast finished, we walked hand in hand back towards the glass pyramid. The lineup was already getting pretty long, but instead of joining it, Jack led me down a set of stairs into an underground shopping mall with a food court, where we joined another, much smaller line to enter.
“This is the secret lineup most tourists either don’t know about or don’t care to find,” he told me as I put my purse through the X-ray scanner. We bought our tickets, got a map of the museum, and the next thing I knew I was in the most famous museum in the world with the best man in the world.
Jack was happy to let me lead the way.
“You know a lot more about this stuff than I do,” he told me, handing me the map. “We’re not going to get to see everything in one day, believe me. I’d just pick a wing or two for now, and then we’ll grab lunch and go up the Eiffel Tower this afternoon.”
“You’re amazing,” I replied, planting a soft kiss on Jack’s lips.
“You’re pretty good yourself,” he replied.
For two hours we went through the Italian section of the Louvre. I explained the differences between pre-Renaissance and Renaissance painting, while Jack dutifully listened. Whether or not he was just pretending to be interested I don’t think I’ll ever know, but I liked that he did at least pretend.
The highlight, of course, was the Mona Lisa. Barely more than a foot high, it’s definitely not the huge painting many people imagine. Jack pushed through the throng of people, guiding me towards the front of the groups of hundreds of people, all trying to get a glimpse of the painting that once hung on the walls of Louis XVII. With his muscles and tattoos, people always moved out of the way for him.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” I whispered, and I could feel Jack nodding as he wrapped his arms around my waist.
“It sure is. She has a pretty ethereal look about her.”