***

  It always felt like a wide-awake dream, to lie on the grass just a hundred metres from the Eiffel Tower, and watch it glitter up in the clear night sky right before our eyes. On the other hand, being this close made it hard to really think of it as a tower.

  “If I ever cried,” said Amy, “this is what would make me cry.” She tucked her short dark hair behind her ears and stretched out her legs on the towel, those well-toned legs from kickboxing classes that made her the envy of many. She usually converted all the envy to fear, when she’d punch you in the shoulder for no real reason and laugh manically. I’d missed her.

  Eleanor admired the view in a meditative state, sitting cross-legged in a tank top and tiny shorts, something only her perfect little body could carry off. Her long brown hair flew in front of her face, snapping her out of Eiffel admiration. “Is there any more baguette?”

  I reached into my tote and pulled one out. “This is Paris; there’s always more baguette.” I broke off a piece. “Oh my god it’s still fresh!”

  “Really?” said Amy. She practically leapt on top of me to grab it. “How do they make it crusty on the outside and soft and warm on the inside?”

  I scrunched my nose. “I hope you’re still talking about bread.”

  The next few sounds out of their mouths were indiscernible grunts of pleasure mixed with loud chewing. It filled me with pride to watch them experience one of my top Paris joys.

  “So guys,” I said, as I shook an empty bottle of wine. “How’s single life in Toronto?”

  “Ugh,” said Eleanor.

  “Barf!” added Amy.

  “You really mean it?” I said. They nodded and I had to smile. “Thank god!”

  Amy punched me in the shoulder. Suddenly I didn’t miss her as much. “What’s ‘thank god’ supposed to mean?” she said.

  I rubbed my shoulder and winced. “I just meant that if I’d spent all this money to live in Paris only for the guy scene here to be even worse than Toronto...well I might’ve had some buyer’s remorse. But hey, equally crappy dudes and way better scenery?” I gestured to the luminous Eiffel Tower. “I’ll take Paris.”

  “I still can’t believe how much Paris sucks for guys!” said Eleanor, as she opened the next bottle of wine.

  “Trust me it was a shock,” I said.

  “You think we’ll meet cool guys when we go to Switzerland?” she said.

  After only a second of thinking I shook my head. “I’m pretty sure Switzerland is full of cow herders and dorky chocolate-makers. I mean kudos to them for making all the chocolate, but dorky central. For sure.”

  “But how do you know they’re all dorks?” said Eleanor.

  “Because the guy in the Lindt chocolate commercial looks like a nerdy scientist in a chef’s hat.” I shrugged my shoulders.

  “What about when we’re in Amsterdam?” said Eleanor, her voice quickly losing all hope for a hot-guy vacation.

  “Nope,” said Amy. “Amsterdam is hooker-central.”

  “And most of the guys in Amsterdam are male tourists,” I said. “And what do male tourists do when they go to Amsterdam? Hookers.”

  Eleanor poured herself a glass of wine. “Maybe I should’ve gone to Australia...”

  “Excuse me,” I said. “You don’t need guys to have a good time.”

  Eleanor snorted “Says the girl who’s still fresh off her latest hook-up with James.”

  “Yeah well...” I started to blush. “He was only doing me a favour.”

  “Eww did you pay him?” said Amy.

  Now it was my turn to punch her in the arm. “It’s Europe, okay? Encounters like that are normal, but that doesn’t mean he’s my boyfriend. Anyway...I think we should make a pact for our vacation.”

  “What kind of pact?” said Eleanor.

  “No guys,” I said firmly. Eleanor looked at me all bug-eyed like I’d gone insane. “What? No guys? No problems. It’ll be like a female solidarity vacation! I’ll take you to a tea salon tomorrow, we can go for a nice stroll along the river, maybe we can even do a day trip to Giverny and rent bikes!” I beamed at the endless possibilities.

  Eleanor scowled. “Hold on, is this a no-guy vacation or a lesbian retreat?”

  Instead of answering I grabbed the bottle of wine from her clutches and gave myself a refill, as I wondered what our lives would be like if we all ended up alone...

  ***

  In the grungy little bar that was home to weekly open mic, I sat at a corner table with Amy and Eleanor, busy getting them up to speed on all the various quirky characters.

  “That’s the woman who used to star in plays,” I said. “But now all she does is sing about how she used to star in plays.” I pointed to a woman in her thirties with blue hair and frighteningly bright pink lipstick.

  Eleanor pointed at a tanned guy with a scraggly blond beard. “He’s kinda cute,” she said.

  “Oh him; that’s the guy who yells so loud when he reads his poems that he spits on you if you’re sitting in the front row.”

  “Ugh, never mind.”

  “And that’s my friend Carter!” I said loudly. He turned to us, his all-American smile on full display. “He acts like poetry gold just spills from his pores, but it’s nothing you haven’t heard before.”

  “Wow that’s cold,” he said. He came over and helped himself to a seat beside me. I introduced him to Amy and Eleanor, but he didn’t wait long before starting the interrogation. “So how was Italy? Did you meet that guy from your past? Is he married? Did you punch him? Tell me EVERYTHING!” He rested his hand on his chin mockingly, like a schoolgirl waiting for the gossip.

  “Well you’re a jerk, that’s the first thing I need to cover off. And all the rest will be answered when I read my piece tonight.”

  He seemed genuinely interested now. “Is it something from your new book?”

  “Well...kind of. But it’s slightly adapted for the audience setting. Less ‘bookish,’ I guess.” Amy made a loud fake-snoring sound. “Okay, okay I’m being boring, sorry! Amy why don’t you get another two-euro glass of wine? Happy hour’s over in ten minutes.” Without a second look she bolted from the table.

  “So Eleanor...” said Carter. “Are you single?”

  I elbowed him and scowled. “Are you actually hitting on her in front of me?”

  He stared at me hard. “Why? Do you care?”

  My scowl relaxed. “No, I just feel like she can do a lot better.” I gave her the thumbs up and she was already blushing.

  “So do I,” he said. “Which is why I was going to say she should talk to my friend Daniel.” He gestured to a cute guy with scruffy black hair; he was sipping a beer all by himself in the corner. Why hadn’t I ever seen him before? “He’s my buddy from London and he moved here last week.” He rose from the table. “I should go keep him company. And you should too when you get the chance.” He smiled at Eleanor and headed over to his friend.

  “That was weird...” I said, rolling my eyes in Eleanor’s direction. She was too busy staring at Daniel to notice. “Earth to Eleanor!” I snapped my fingers. “You better not forget the pact. Besides, we’re leaving Paris in two days.”

  She scoffed. “Obviously I know that. So anyway...is that THE Carter? The one you ‘accidentally’ kissed?”

  I looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Keep it down! The people here gossip like nothing else. And trust me, it was definitely an accident caused by really bad aim. I have terrible lip-to-cheek coordination.” Eleanor laughed as I tried to remember the unintended brush of our lips. The beer from that night had fogged up the details, and before I could really think it through the little bell started ringing. It tolled for the start of writers’ open mic, and another sweaty night in the basement bar...

  ***

  I’d performed at open mic so many times now it shouldn’t have been a big deal. If only I wasn’t reading about Erik for the first time ever. So far I’d been the only one exposed to what I’d written of him, and even then it was the roughest draft, one I’d have to spend the rest of the summer pounding away at. As for the audience here they could wait no longer, and my five minutes onstage were already ticking away.

  I cleared my throat and waved. “Hey guys. Just so you know this does not have a happy ending. Oops, is that a spoiler?” A few people laughed, and from there I launched right in.

  For the first three minutes I summarized my entire history with Erik and sprinkled in some funny moments so no one would pity me (if only real memories were that easy!). Then I went all time machine and wrote about a few years later, imagining how it would be if I ever saw him again...

  “On that fateful day, it’s our strollers that collide not each other, strollers for different babies we each had with someone else. We ‘coo’ and ‘aww’ at one another’s prized offspring, as we say ‘So cute!’ along with the required ‘I can totally see the resemblance!’ We turn our attention to ourselves for just a few seconds, long enough to exchange an insincere ‘You look so good!’”

  The audience was laughing more often now, which helped fight the pain in the words I was sharing. With their support I continued on...

  “And then we go along on our merry ways, our smiles fading out and the memories fading in. Later we tell our friends we’re so relieved we didn’t end up together. I convince them your receding hairline was a bullet dodged, and you casually state that I officially have a ‘mom body’ now. But the friends aren’t convinced so we try even harder; I tell them my baby is ten times cuter than yours, and you say that mine was showing signs of a lazy eye.’

  By now the crowd in the basement bar was really laughing it up. Part of me felt great, and part of me was totally broken. Luckily the part that felt great had a much bigger ego than the broken side, so I read the last few lines and let the applause sink in, with Amy and Eleanor’s “woo-hoos!” leading the way.

  Feeling terrible had never felt so good...

  ***

  After the open mic, most of the expat writers loitered outside the bar finishing their drinks and smoking cigarettes, while I tried my best not to breathe in their cancer fumes. I’d become better and better at this, since nine months of dodging second-hand smoke in a city where almost everyone smoked really helped fight the urge to breathe. Amy was hamming it up with the middle-aged writers and giving them a show of some sort, which involved her “squawking” and flapping her wings at a certain point. I’d expect nothing less.

  Eleanor was harder to find, so I pushed my way through the crowd until I found her talking to Daniel, their faces two inches apart. Was she breaking our pact for a guy-free, “Golden Girls” vacation?

  I needed to find out, so I approached them with a righteous swagger. “I see you two have met.”

  Daniel looked at me oddly. “We have, but I don’t think you and I have met yet. I’m Daniel.”

  I nodded but refused to meet his eye. “Cool. So what are you guys talking about? How you live so far away from each other?”

  Eleanor was shooting me dirty looks, but I was only trying to save her from herself. I’d been here before; the accents, the distance, the meaningful gazes...it was dangerous territory. “Actually he was telling me about his job as a project manager,” she said.

  “Really? How impressive!” “Project manager,” that job you say you have when you need to invent a fake job. “And you’re a writer too? I guess that doesn’t leave time for a relationship.”

  Before I could assist any further in protecting Eleanor’s heart, Carter came over and grabbed me by the arm. “I’m just gonna steal her way for a second.”

  Once we were out of earshot I glared at him. “Unhand me!”

  He laughed. “Nice lingo, have you been reading too much Shakespeare?”

  “Well...I have been reading a book called ‘Shakespeare’s Monologues For Women.’”

  “Ooh, gettin’ classy all of a sudden!”

  “Are you basically saying I was previously trashy?”

  He smiled. “Just leave those two alone okay? I think they’re really hitting it off.”

  I frowned. “Hitting it off to where? Off a cliff? I mean come on, we’re going to Belgium in two days, then after our vacation she’s back in Canada.”

  “So?”

  I tried to think of the best way to dumb it down. “When people aren’t in the same place,” I spread out my arms as far as they would go, “it all falls apart.” I dropped my arms to my sides. “Get it?”

  He held me by the shoulders with his strong Yankee hands. “Okay, you need to stop projecting your bad experiences onto other people.”

  “But I was just--”

  He put a finger to my lips. It felt nice. “Shh...everything will be okay, you future embittered old lady with fifteen cats.” I gasped and punched him in the gut.

  “Sorry, I had to,” he said. He clutched his stomach but didn’t seem to be in pain, given the way he was laughing at me now. “That was totally worth the stomach punch; do you hate me now?”

  I sighed. “No, it was actually pretty good. Up top.” We high-fived as Amy came rushing over.

  “Guys! Where’s the late-night pizza? I need a carb infusion STAT.”

  I stroked her hair. “Oooh I forgot to tell you...it’s really hard to find after-bar food in Paris at two a.m. I think that’s why Parisians are so damn skinny.”

  Her eyes bulged. “WHAT?”

  “She’s right,” said Carter. “In Paris you just have to ride the buzz and eventually pass out.”

  She started stomping back and forth. “Wow Romes, you didn’t tell me you were living in a THIRD WORLD COUNTRY! How come I didn’t have to get a malaria shot? Huh?” She elbowed Carter as he tried not to laugh. “Huh??”

  The few French writers in the crowd were glaring at Amy now, while Eleanor’s lips were getting closer and closer to Daniel’s. I had officially lost control of my Canadians, which really made me wonder how we’d make it out of Amsterdam alive...which also made me wonder when I’d suddenly become the mom of the group.

  Single in your thirties...not as glamourous as advertised by Carrie Bradshaw!

  Chapter Sixteen

  My biggest vacation lesson would not come in the form of a drunken random make-out and the worst hangover ever (not that it didn’t happen), but in planning vacations with gal pals to “gorgeous little towns.” If only someone had stopped us from “oohing” and “ahhing” at these picturesque towns on Google images. Instead we shamelessly “oohed,” we happily “ahhed,” we hurriedly processed online bookings, and at last we arrived in these towns that were made for couples...and swarming with couples. Everywhere.

  We noticed this first in the little town of Aix-en-Provence in the south of France, where each individual person only had one hand free, since the other hand was busy clasped in a lover’s grip.

  “Is eleven a.m. too early to start drinking?” I said, as we strolled through a tiny cobblestoned street in the sizzling sun, with weathered yellow buildings on either side of us.

  “Maybe,” said Amy. “But it’s never too early for chocolate!” She wandered into a chocolate shop, with all kinds of different chocolate slabs in the window.

  Eleanor and I followed her inside. The smell was absolutely overwhelming, making us forget that men and their penises had ever existed in the world.

  A woman approached us, adjusting her apron and smiling. “Welcome! Here you will get the freshest chocolate.” Her pleasant French accent was somehow more relaxed than what I usually heard in Paris.

  Amy licked her lips. “I love fresh chocolate.”

  “It’s fresh because we break off whatever you want, straight from the original slabs.” She held up a dark brown slab that was two feet wide. “This is our chocolate and banana slab.”

  I gripped Amy’s shoulders. “Oh my god, chocolate and banana is the best combination in the world!”

  The woman broke off three pieces and held out her hand. “Try it.”

  Our reaction was unanimous: “Mmm...”

  Next the woman held up a big white slab. “White chocolate, coconut and nougat; you try?” We nodded and she broke off three more pieces.

  “Oh my god,” I said, after finishing the second piece. “I love being on vacation.”

  Over the next ten minutes we tried five other slabs, and each of us ended up buying a bag full of jagged pieces. It may not have been a guy’s hand to romantically hold, but I gripped that bag of chocolate with an equal amount of affection.

  And that’s how we survived the couple-centric town of Aix-en-Provence...

  ***

  Belgium’s little town of Brugge was even worse when it came to all the couples and their gestures of love. I rested the blame squarely on the fairy tale essence of the town, its idyllic quality not too different from a children’s pop-up book. The beautiful little river that wound its way through the town, the buildings in the square that took on a medieval quality, the random patches of grass for the dozens of swans...what gorgeous swans!

  The only part that seemed to taint the fairy tale vibe was the high incidence of couples making out in a sloppy fashion.

  The latest one of these couples was making out beside us on the stone-made bridge. It was a tiny darling of a bridge, which allowed us to not only witness their kiss, but to hear it in surround sound too. Definitely a wet one. Ugh. They eventually stopped, but only so the girl could pull out her phone, and take a picture of the two of them making out even more. It was one of those “wrestling tongues” make-out photos, so I said a short prayer for their Facebook friends who’d eventually find that horror in their newsfeed. Before they could ask us to videotape them having sex we got the hell off that bridge, but not before almost colliding with a man pushing a stroller.

  A hot man.

 

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