Summer 2006
Chapter I: Sam Merrin Travels to Europe
Sam Merrin boarded her flight to Paris with a strange mixture of trepidation and excitement. This would be her first trip to Europe, and the exhilaration of realizing her lifelong dream was enough to keep her awake long into the early morning hours. Eventually succumbing to utter exhaustion, she awoke as the plane lurched to a stop on the runaway. She clutched her carry-on bag to her chest like a security blanket until she regained her bearings, bolting upright upon recalling her destination. She raised the window shade to reveal an unencumbered view of the Parisian cityscape, radiant in the early morning light. She imagined she could see the sun peering though the Eiffel Tower, the light from the bright star glinting off its iron exoskeleton and refracting in her direction. Deep within, Sam Merrin knew this day was the start of a new life for her.
Sam Merrin had quit her job as a PR Associate for a Santa Rosa winery just before the winter holidays, and having been unable to find any permanent work in a field that was both challenging and rewarding, she became despondent. After a couple of frustrating and unfruitful months as a job seeker, Sam Merrin decided she needed a change of pace, a new city, in order to find out who she was and what she wanted out of life. She had always promised herself she would visit Paris one day, and filled with a sudden, overwhelming desire to accomplish an external goal that would make her life matter, she took a huge risk, emptying a large portion of her savings account and booking herself a flight to Paris. She had no idea what she was going to do once she got there; she was just going.
Sam Merrin had explained all this to her seatmate, but he hardly seemed interested, ordering himself a double shot of Jack Daniel’s, which he used to down two little white pills that had him snoring within 20 minutes. Sam envied his peaceful slumber, and soon became restless and increasingly bored by the never-changing scenery. She tried burying her head in a book, but concentration eluded her, and she found her mind wandering and her eyes reading without comprehension. Her focus drifted to the window where she found herself gazing back at her faint and nebulous apparition-like reflection enveloped in the dark sea below. She began to daydream of seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time. She imagined she would stand in the mighty shadow of one of the most recognizable man-made structures in the world and tears would well in her eyes at the awesomeness of being in the presence of France’s famous icon. Somewhere in her daydreams, she began to drift asleep and awoke with a start as the plane touched down a few hours later in the aptly named City of Lights, where the whole Earth appeared bathed in a crisp, clean, and sparkling newness that reinvigorated her naturally adventurous soul.
Chapter II
Paris: A Dream Come True
Sam Merrin arrived in Paris severely jet-lagged, but she was resolved not to waste any time in her hotel room. After making it through customs and the complicated sets of tube-like terminals, she foolishly only stopped by her hotel to drop of her luggage, change into some warmer clothes, and pack a small daypack, containing some extras she might need, before heading to the center of the city. Deciding to leave the best for last, she avoided the Champs de Mars and took a direct route to the Louvre, arriving at its glass pyramid entrance in the late afternoon. As she was about to enter, she noticed a crowd gathering near the center of the courtyard, and she went to have a look, thinking perhaps a tour was forming. Inside the ring, she discovered a street performer had just begun his routine, juggling and telling comedic stories to the crowd. Although her French was fairly rudimentary, she understood some of what he said, especially the uncomplicated jokes directed towards the children. He did some simple magic tricks, pulling coins and handkerchiefs out of ears to make the children giggle and performing some card tricks that even amazed some adults. Before she knew it, Sam Merrin was laughing along with the crowd. He finished off his performance with a beautiful violin sonata that left everyone momentarily speechless.
As the final notes echoed off the former palace’s walls, the crowd slowly regained their senses and began their quiet ovation that quickly turned into thunderous applause. Sam Merrin wished he would play an encore, but he seemed content to bow before his adoring audience and let them disperse or drop some spare change in his visibly aged violin case as they saw fit. Sam Merrin was one of the few who trailed forward. She dropped several euros onto the worn and stained burgundy lining, and he seemed to take particular notice of her. “Merci, Madame,” he nodded towards her, his jester-like hat teetering precariously. “Je vous en prie,” Sam managed the foreign phrase with some difficulty. He smiled knowingly, and she turned to go, embarrassed by her accent. “Have a nice day!” he called after her in English. “You too,” she hurried into the Louvre, hoping to peruse at least one of the many celebrated galleries before the museum closed for the day.
Once inside, Sam Merrin took her time, inspecting every painting, sculpture, stairwell, and ceiling. She wanted to take in the whole atmosphere of the gallery and remember it forever. She had vowed to enjoy herself, and now that she was finally in Paris, she had no interest in rushing through anything. France seemed to evoke a slower pace from her, and the world seemed to melt away as she stood in front of the Mona Lisa. She knew nothing of how long she remained there, inspecting every detail, from the curve of Mona Lisa’s chin to the lines in her fingers. Sam Merrin remembered reading an article once about the woman’s identity, and as she gazed at the masterpiece, she contemplated the mystery and the majesty behind da Vinci’s work.
Sam Merrin was startled out of her reverie by an announcement that the museum would be closing in 10 minutes. As she made her way to the nearest exit, following a long line of tourists and art enthusiasts, she suddenly felt claustrophobic and overwhelmed by exhaustion and was forced to remember she had neither eaten nor drank anything for several hours and was now succumbing to jet lag. She gratefully stumbled out into the open air, clutching her head and leaning against a stone handrail for support. Once her mixed feelings of nausea and dizziness had subsided, she spotted a nearby crêpe vendor and decided to purchase some water and perhaps a chocolate crêpe, when her leg made contact with something sharp. The jagged edge gashed her thigh and made her jerk back from her assailant: the violin case owned by the same street performer she had encountered earlier. “Pardonnez-moi, Madame,” he exclaimed, and then realizing whom he had just injured, he repeated himself in English. “Did I hurt you? Are you bleeding?” he queried. “I don’t know,” Sam Merrin perched on a nearby banister and inspected her torn slacks and the wound visible beneath. “I’ll get you a towel, or something,” he set his violin case and bag down beside her and went to the crêpe vendor to request a napkin and a bottle of water. “You should go to the doctor,” he said, handing her the only first aid he had. “It’s alright. It’s not that bad,” she said, dabbing the now bleeding gash, “I am more worried about the pants. I think they’re ruined.” She fiddled with the L-shaped flap of material. “I am terribly sorry,” he apologized, “I don’t live far. You can come bandage the cut.” Sam Merrin gave him a skeptical look and instinctively reached for her bag, “It’s ok. I should be going,” she tottered to her feet, and he looked as though he was about to steady her, “No, please,” he stopped her, “You must come.”
“My hotel’s really not that far. I will make it just fine. I could find a restroom on the way.”
“I insist,” he took her elbow and led the way for the patient who was too ill to protest any further.
He escorted her from the 1st arrondissement to the 5th, navigating the complexly arranged streets and the public transit system with great ease. “How far is it?” Sam Merrin asked after their short bus ride. “It’s here,” he pointed to a dilapidated student dorm adjacent to a large, neo-classical campus. “It’s fastest to take the bus,” he explained. “You’re a student?” she asked, putting some of the puzzle pieces together. “Yes. I go to the Paris Conservatory of Music, but in summers, I take theatre classes here,” he led her into the building and up a flight of stairs. “Why do you perform on the streets, then?” her head hurt too much to care whether her question was rude, and he did not seem to mind her prying, although she had been warned the French were very private and despised personal questions. “I could perform anywhere else and get paid better,” he shrugged, “but I like being a part of the people and entertaining the children. It’s what I do,” he took out his latchkey and unbolted the warped door from its splintering frame. He held the door open for her, “After you.”
“Your English is really good,” she complimented him, entering the small dorm and taking in its sparseness. “We’re required to take it in school. I have an accent still though, no?” She smiled her response.
The violinist went to the closet, separated from the room by a large French flag, and retrieved a first aid kit. “The bathroom is down the hall,” he motioned, scratching his head with his free hand and then quickly replacing it in his back pocket. Sam Merrin followed his directions, and once in the bathroom, she found a small bench in the corner and sat down, letting her head loll back against the blank wall and her muscles and eyes relax. After several minutes passed, she began to fish in her bag for something else to wear and was relieved to find she had remembered to pack a skirt in case the weather turned. She dressed her wound and changed into the skirt, thankful the day had grown warm while she was at the Louvre. She inspected herself in the mirror before returning to the dorm room. The door was shut, and she knocked politely. When he opened it, she handed him the first aid kit, “Thanks for everything.” He put the kit on a side table and leaned a hand against the door, “It was the least I could do.”
“Well, thanks,” she headed for the stairs. “Wait,” he said, “What’s your name?”
“Sam. Well, it’s Samantha, but everyone calls me Sam. What’s yours?”
“Fabrice.”
“Nice to meet you Fabrice,” she extended her hand, and he shook it. “Nice to meet you too, Sam. Will you be coming to the Louvre again?” he shifted his weight between his feet. “I hope so, but I am not going to be in Paris very long, and there’s lots I want to see.”
“Sure, sure. Well, if you see me, say hello, ok? I promise not to run into you this time.” Sam giggled, “Ok, then I will. Ciao,” she offered her hand again, forgetting they had already shook hands, and he gave it a squeeze. Without warning, she leaned forward and kissed him square on the mouth and walked away.
