A Nice Fling is Hard to Find (5 page)

When we were done, we unsnapped our jackets, took off our
helmets, picked up our paddles, and walked back to the boathouse. Becca was
beside me, red cheeked and laughing, when she clucked her tongue. “Penny with a
Y hooked up with my brother on Bastille Day and on the train. How gross is
that?”

And that’s when the paddle slipped out of my hand, landed on
my foot and sent me to the hospital.

When it first landed, I howled in pain.

Joanna ran over.

“I’ll be fine,” I told her. “This happens all the time.”

She crouched in front of me. “I think we need to go to the
hospital,” she said.

“No!” I whined. “It’s my middle toe. There’s nothing they
can do. Trust me, I’ve broken it twice already.”

“Maybe,” Joanna said. “But we’re legally responsible to get
it checked out. I can’t have your parents suing me.”

“They won’t! I promise!” If they’ll blame anyone, it’ll be
me. “I’m sure I’ll feel much better once I soak my foot in the hot springs.”

“No way,” Joanna said, shaking her head. “You guys go on
ahead to the springs. We’ll see you back on the lodge.”

The shuttle bus dropped us off. Us being me and Joanna.

No hot springs for me. And no Pierre either. I convinced him
that the rest of the group would need his translation skills more than I would.
This was humiliating enough without him being there.

So now Joanna and I are sitting on plastic chairs in the
waiting room. My foot is shoeless and resting on the seat beside me. Two of my
toes are bright blue. It’s not pretty.

“Poor you,” she says.

“C’est la vie,”
I say, with a sigh. I’m used to it.

Four hours later

My foot isn’t broken—but one of my middle toes is. And
just like I said, there’s nothing they can do for it either, except wrap it to
the big one and hope for the best.

I missed the hot springs. I missed dinner too. When I got
back to the lodge (hungry, cranky, and in pain) I unlocked my door and walked
in on Becca and Harold making out.

I slammed the door.

“Sorry, hold on one sec!” Becca yelled.

I waited. And waited. And hobbled.

Finally, she allowed me into my own room.

Becca and Harold went for a walk, and now I’m sitting up in
my bed grumbling. And annoyed. And in pain. Becca is making out with Harold,
and the Pennies are missing, so Penny could very well be making out with Tommy.
I can’t believe they’re an item. How could he try to kiss me, and then hook up
with
her
right afterwards? See, that’s why relationships are scary. A
guy says he likes you and them, BAM! He likes someone else.

And Pierre . . . well Abby spent the entire evening with
Pierre showcasing her fabulous booty in the hot springs. If reality TV has
taught me anything, it’s that they are right now rolling around together as I
write.

Everyone has someone.

And what do I have? A broken middle toe and burnt boobs.

Tuesday, July 17, 3:30 P.M.

It’s drizzly and cold. I’m sitting at a café, drinking
café
au lait
, miserable. This trip sucks. France is evil.

And then things got worse:

“Today we’re going on a hike!” Joanna exclaimed this
morning.

I cannot go on a hike. Those with incapacitated toes barely walk,
never mind climb the Alps. Becca offered to stay and hang out with me, but I
insisted she go. She loves to hike, and I didn’t want to suck her into my
personal web of misery.

So I hobbled over to a nearby boutique. I saw a pretty
purple dress in the window. I asked the salesgirl if I could try it on. She
said
oui
. It didn’t fit.

She then yelled, “
Zut alors!
You waste my time! Why
you are waste my time?”

I hobbled out.

Now I am alone. Sitting at a café. Eating a croissant and
brie.

Tomorrow we leave for Nice, the last leg of our trip. I
can’t wait for this to be over. I want to go home. To my house. To my family.
To my dog.

The waiter who keeps bringing me cheese is kind of cute.

Kind of. Not really. But kind of.

Maybe I should grab him by the collar, plant a wet one on
his lips and that would be that.

I’ll guava-fie and smile pretty and see what happens.

Two minutes later

My guava is missing. I emptied my entire purse on the
table and I do not see it. It must be in my backpack. It must.

5:00 P.M.

It’s not. It’s gone.

I must have left it on the train. Or in the Alps. Or in
Paris. It’s probably partying it up with my camera.

I have looked everywhere. I wish Becca were here to help me,
but she’s too busy traipsing through the countryside with Harold.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! France has not only stolen my camera, my
walking capability, my potential flings, and my happiness, but it has now
stolen my guava!

Wednesday, July 18, 12:30 A.M.

I have good news and I have bad news.

First the good.

We were in the restaurant of the chalet, about to have
steak
frites
. We were sitting at a long rectangular table. I sat next to Becca at
one end. Abby was sitting at the other. The seat next to her was empty. The
seat next to me was empty. And that’s when Pierre walked in.

Who did he chose? Me. He chose me. He sat down right next to
me. Hah! Go me! And to think that last night I was ready to write off the
entire trip. Yet here I am back in the game, even without my guava.

“Hi Pierre,” I said. “How are you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. “I don’t understand you. Can
you ask me how I am in French?” That is what Pierre is supposed to do, after
all – encourage us to speak French.

I picked up my fork, and twirled it in my fingers like a
baton. “I don’t know how to speak French.”

He leaned in closer to me. I could smell the cologne on his
neck.
“Repeat after me. Bonjour, Pierre. Comment
ç
a va?”

“Bonjour Pierre,” I parroted.
“Comment
ç
a va?”

“Bien. Et toi?” he said.

“Bien. Et toi?” I repeated.

“No, now you have to answer me. I said, ‘Good and you?’ And
now you must tell me how you are.”

“I’m good. Thank you, Pierre. I’m starving and looking
forward to dinner. What do you recommend I order? How do I say that?”

“Ça va bien,” he said, sounding extra accenty and sexy. He
was rolling his R’s and everything.
“Merci, Pierre. J’ai faim, et
je veux manger
. Queseque tu recommandes manger?”
Then
he added with a laugh, “Comment je dis cela?”

“That was
way
too much to repeat,” I said.

He gave me a big smile. “You must try.”

So he spent the rest of
le diner
teaching me
le
French
. Did you know that plate is
plat
? That fork is
fourchette
?
That glass is
verre
? How smart am I? I can now name my entire place
setting in French and my name in Russian.

If any of my actual teachers had been this sexy, I’d be
multi-lingual.

Anyway, there I was enjoying my educational dinner when
Tommy and Penny with a Y had to come and annoy the heck out of me. First of
all, they walked into dinner TOGETHER, and his cheeks were all flushed and she
was all giggling, and then he held out her chair for her. Puke. But that’s not
what really bugged me. It’s when I saw it.

Her lips.

They were glossy. They were orangey. They’d been . . .
guava-fied. Oh, yes. I am 99.9999% sure that Penny with a Y stole my Grandma’s
guava. Not that I can accuse her. Yet.

I spent the rest of dinner trying not to stare.

First she steals Tommy, and then she steals my lip gloss?
Did she take my camera, too?

12:32 A.M.

Not that I think Penny stole Tommy.

12:45 A.M.

Because he wasn’t mine. He was my friend, sure, but he
didn’t belong to me. One thwarted kiss does not a boyfriend make. I don’t even
like Tommy! I mean, I like him as a friend but that’s it. I am not looking, or
wanting another boyfriend.

1:15 A.M.

Obviously I’m going to have to search Penny’s stuff right
now while everyone is asleep.

2:10 A.M.

Well, that didn’t work out as planned.

I shimmied down the bunk bed and then snuck over to her
backpack. Which was unlocked. And which was also red and covered in designer
labels. Instead of flags, Penny with a Y decided to sew I ♥ Juicy patches
onto her bag. She’s a citizen of Bloomies.

I got down on my hands and knees, unzipped it and began
feeling my way through her clothes. And that’s when I heard:

“Lindsay, what are you doing?”

I froze. Penni with an I was awake and even in the dark I
would see her glaring at me.

“I’m uh . . . looking for a tank top. It’s so hot.”

“But that’s not your bag.”

“What?” I feigned confusion. “Whoops! It’s so dark in here I
can’t see anything.”

“Why would yours be under our bunk bed?”

Excellent question. “I thought I put it there.”

I don’t know why I was making excuses to her, when it was
her friend who (99.9999% sure) stole my stuff.

Once I removed my hands from inside her friend’s bag, took
out a tank top from my own (kind of had to), and returned to my sleeping bag,
Penni reluctantly stopped glaring at me. Although first she double checked both
her and the other Penny’s bag and locked them both.

And here I am. Writing. With my flashlight. Again.

In case you’re wondering—my toe still hurts. And so do my
boobs.

5:30 P.M.

Nice is not that nice.

We arrived by train this afternoon. We once again had to
divide into rooms of four, but this time the Pennies arranged to stay with Max
and Kristin. Wonder why. Anyway, Becca and I bunked with Abby and Joanna. We
quickly changed into our bathing suits and met the rest of our group on the
“so-called” beach. I write “so-called” because there is no sand. Only rocks.
Okay, fine, it’s still pretty gorgeous. The coastline goes on forever and the
water is bright emerald. Large, glamorous hotels line the beach and boardwalk.
We hung out on a public beach, but right to the left of us was a private club
area complete with white beach chairs, fluffy plum-colored towels and bar
service.

Because of the rocks, some of the guys had already bought
foam mats to put their towels on, so we followed their lead and bought our own
from a little shop on the boardwalk.

Then I set myself up – and declined to remove my bikini top,
thank you very much. Becca kept hers on as well.

But Abby, and the Pennies? They were on full display.

I enjoyed the sun for an hour, but then felt my skin
sizzling and thought I should take a little stroll, broken toe be damned. I
walked down the beach, passing cafés and bars and beach clubs and sun umbrellas,
and yapping dogs, until I reached path that took me uphill. I walked and walked
until I reached the cobblestones of old Nice and a railing that showcased the
most incredible view of the beach I have ever seen. And now I’m sitting here,
taking it in.

Breathing. Seeing. Riviera-ing. Actually, Nice is nice after
all.

You know what I realized? I have three nights left on this
trip, and I am not going to spend them being miserable.

So what if I have no camera? I have you, TJ. You’ll always
remind me of my trip.

And so what if I have no fling? I have . . . well, I doubt
you’re a good kisser.

Thursday, July 19, 3:00 P.M.

See? It works. As soon as you make peace with yourself,
good things happen. You’ll never guess who I saw on the beach . . .

I had set up my foam mat next to Becca’s and closed my eyes
when I felt someone blocking my sun.

Vlad! Looking hot and Slavic. “Hello,” he said. “I have been
searching for you.”

He! Was! Looking! For! Me! I quickly sat up. “Hi, Vlad,” I
purred. “How was Switzerland?”

He sat down at the foot of my mat, and told me all about
Zurich. They had arrived in Nice two nights earlier and had been looking for
us.

“Want to swim?” he asked.

“Sure, but I’ll need some help,” I said, motioning to my
foot. He took my hand (took my hand!) and led me down to the water.

Now the beach may be covered in pebbles, but the ocean is as
gorgeous up close as thought it would be. And it feels almost as warm as
bathwater. Azure blue, sparkling bathwater.  Almost as stunning as Vlad’s green
eyes . . .

Sigh.

“Will you meet me tonight?” he asked. “It is my last night
here. Tomorrow we go to Spain.”

“Yes! I have to go to dinner in the old city, but I can meet
you as soon as I’m done.”

“Perfect. You will meet me at Whiskey Disco? At 10? We will
dance?”

Hooray! Of course I agreed. Dancing with Vlad! Kissing Vlad
on the dance floor? Hello,
fling
! “Why don’t you stay two more nights?
And then go to Spain on Sunday?”

He shook his head. “That is not plan.”

OK then. Must stick to the plan.

Don’t forget,” he said, putting his hand to his shirtless,
now wet chest. “Tonight.”

Forget? How could I?

Now that you’re all filled in, I gotta go shower and look
extra fabulous.

9:50 P.M.

Oh my. I need to think. Think, think think. I am sitting
on a lounge chair in the Marriott’s private beach area trying to clear my head.

I have big news. BIG NEWS.

Pierre came on to me.

Yes! Finally! Really! We all walked over as a group to the
old city. The cobblestoned roads were so old and quaint, and the streetlights
flickered like candles, and the entire area smelled like garlic and warm pasta
and wine emanating from a nearby restaurant.

We sat down at yet another long table. Pierre sat beside me.
Becca and Harold sat next to me. Tommy and Penny sat across from them.