Zahra had spent a lifetime dreaming of Paris.
Unfortunately, work came first.
And just kept coming.
She sighed as the plane taxied down the runway, landing at Charles de Gaulle airport. She'd asked whether she could have a day or two to explore Paris, but her boss informed her that she was absolutely needed at a meeting that she already knew could have been an email.
But work was scarce these days and she was of a generation that watched The Devil Wears Prada and hated the character with whom she was supposed to empathize. Bitch, she's right, a million girls want your job, what the hell are you doing?
If only she'd lived during a time when young women could go out and find themselves. Nowadays, she was fortunate to have a job where she was overworked and very underpaid, and nobody was gifting her bottles of Moet and Chandon or fancy telephones or whatever.
Still, she was clinging to this job with her fingernails, as tight as she could, because even if the character in that story didn't know what she had, Zahra sure did, and if she wanted to keep paying her rent and living in New York, she would really have to buckle down in the hopes that she'd make it.
Maybe she wasn't too different, after all.
Zahra drank her mochaccino and wandered aimlessly through the airport. She looked through all the stuff at the tourist shop, thinking maybe she could pick something up that would be at least vaguely French, but then realizing that she would feel like a fraud since she hadn't technically been to Paris yet, or even France.
She was debating whether to pay a scandalous amount of money for a sandwich because the packaging was in French, and she'd heard even the random food in France was to die for, when an announcement came over the PA system. It had started in French, but she didn't speak or understand much of the language, despite several attempts during her French phase in her youth.
But the English announcement made her stop still.
"Flight 3875 from Paris Charles de Gaulle to New York City has been cancelled. Please contact the flight desk for more information."
"Shit!" she said. "Oh shit, Jeff is gonna have kittens!"
The old lady manning the till in the shop gave her a surprised look.
Then shrugged, as if to say, c'est la vie.
Zahra ran to the flight desk of her airline, and there was already a long line of angry people waiting. New Yorkers had things to do and places to be. Other passengers were missing various life events; a kid's school play, a wedding.
When it was finally Zahra's turn, she asked:
"What can I do? My boss wants me back tonight."
"I'm sorry, all the flights are booked. You can wait until we have space, but for now there is no availability."
"Well, how long will that take?"
"There's really no telling, ma'am," said the woman. "But we will cover a hotel for you in Paris until there is a seat available."
"But I - "
Zahra's lifelong wish collided with her boss's constant unnecessary need for her physical presence in the office.
"It might be two or three days," the desk attendant continued. "But don't worry. The airline covers both meals and accommodation."
The woman, beautifully coiffed with perfect makeup and a mop of blonde curls beneath her navy blue hat, peered at her.
"Is there an event or an emergency you need to get back to New York for?" she asked. "If so, I can put you on the list - "
"No, no emergencies or events," said Zahra. She smiled. "Just my boss. And you know, I'm lucky to have a job, really grateful, this doesn't matter to you at all - I just - "
The desk attendant smiled.
"I understand perfectly," she said, and in a lower conspiratorial tone, "Then my advice would be: take the offer, spend a few days in Paris. Tell your boss the truth: there's nothing you can do. He can spend the money to fly you back, with another airline, if he wants, but that's up to him. I suspect he won't. So have a few days in the City of Lights, have a baguette, have a fling. Live a little."
She smiled.
"Thanks," said Zahra, a little taken aback by the camaraderie but appreciative of it, as she had always been a little awkward, and her job was the first real thing she'd ever done. "How do I - "
"Already in your email," said the desk attendant. "QR code, it'll work at any of the listed hotels and restaurants. If you have any trouble, my name is Yvette."
"Okay," said Zahra. "Thanks again."
"I've always wanted to see New York," said Yvette, now wistful. "It's partly why I wanted this job, but I haven't made it there yet."
"If you're ever in the area, look me up," said Zahra. "Thanks again."
"Anything for a fellow wage slave," said Yvette, and winked. "Next?"
The moment was over, and Zahra was a stranger once again, standing in the middle of an airport in Paris, her lifelong wish finally granted by a pretty French woman in a blue uniform.
"Yeah, I know, it's really unfortunate," said Zahra apologetically into the phone, as she walked circles around the airport trying to get out. "I'm really sorry. No, I know, there's nothing I could've done. The airline said - yeah, that I could buy a ticket from another airline but that's going to be crazy expensive given the time of year and - yeah, it might happen sooner rather than later, maybe a few hours, maybe tomorrow. Thanks so much for understanding, yeah, no, you don't have to buy me a ticket from another - no, that's really generous, totally unnecessary though - I'll be fine on my own - thanks - thank you - yeah I'll call in for the meeting, conference call phone, I could just do a zoom - or, no, okay, conference call phone's probably more reliable - yeah, okay - sure - you have a good day, that's very sweet of you - no I really don't need you to buy me another ticket - I know it isn't charity, it's just that - right. Okay. I'll stay in touch. You know where to find me. Definitely. Be there at 11 am your time Friday. Unless there's a flight - right. Yeah. Okay. Thanks. Bye."
Zahra exhaled, the stress of the call leaving her body as she finally hung up. She knew that her boss and his underlings would absolutely try and get her another ticket on another airline, but she had managed to talk them out of it, more or less, by emphasizing that she didn't want to be a bother, or cost the company any money, and she knew it had been a tight year, that's Zahra through and through, always thinking about the company! Reassuring them that the airline would be paying for everything, as per Yvette.
And finally, finally, finally! she was free.
Except that she might not spend any time in Paris at all if she couldn't get out of this damned airport!
She'd read somewhere along the line during her initial obsession with Paris and France that Charles de Gaulle was considered one of the most poorly-designed airports in the world, with confusing turnarounds and all kinds of strange nooks and crannies.
She had been circulating all throughout several parts of this particular airport and had noticed a very attractive young man with long straight dark hair seated in one of the cafés, watching her with some amusement over his newspaper. He had a tiny cup of coffee in front of him and an air of complete arrogance.
"If you're going to stare, you could at least help," Zahra finally said, as she realized she'd come down this particular corridor for the fourth time.
"I cannot help but notice that you have passed me four times," replied the man. "I thought I'd see if you made it to five."
"Oh, fuck you," she said, but in a friendly way and with a smile. "Are all you Parisians this rude?"
"No. I am an especial case."
Zahra narrowed her eyes.
"What is even in that little thing, anyway?"
"It's an espresso cup."
"It's a ripoff."
"I take it your...concoction...is an improvement on the elegant delicacy of an espresso?"
Zahra looked at her empty mochaccino cup with some regret.
Then she gave his tiny cup of coffee a look of suspicion.
"I think the Italians are taking the piss with that one, if I can be British about it."
"I don't think they like it when the Americans do that."
"Well, we don't like it when they tax our tea."
The man surprised her with a sudden laugh. It softened his features in a disarming way.
"Indeed," he said. "It's fortunate you've run into me."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I speak English, for one thing. You won't get too far in Paris without French."
"What, none of them know English?"
"Do you know French?"
"I...I really tried!"
"A Frenchman goes to England or America and knows he must speak English."
"And English speakers go everywhere expecting English to be spoken."
The man inclined his head.
"To answer your question, plenty of French people understand or speak it, but they won't," he said. "You're in France. They speak French here."
"Thanks for the cultural education."
"Your opening volley was in English."
"Touché."
"Also English, and not French."
Zahra sighed.
"As fun as the witty repartee is, I am trying to get outside to find a taxi," she said. "This airport is confusing."
"Ah, yes. And famously so," he said. "I will lead you there, if you like."
In response to the look of alarm that probably crossed her face, he said:
"Not to worry. I'm a perfect gentleman."
"You'd say that whether you were or not."
"Hm. Perhaps. But I do know the way. I can draw it on a napkin, or I can accompany you, since I have finished my Italian ripoff coffee."
Zahra debated with herself internally for a while, and then decided to throw caution to the wind. After all, she wasn't going anywhere else with him, and she was looking forward to the hotel and finally seeing Paris!
"Okay. No funny business."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
They walked together in companionable silence for a while.
"I'm Zahra, it's short for Zacharenia," she said, and when she saw the look he gave her, she said, "Oh, I know, it's - I have a big Greek family."
"I was going to say it was a beautiful name."
"Oh."
"Pierre."
"What?"
"My name. It's Pierre."
"Nice to meet you, Pierre."
"Likewise. Ah. Here we are. The taxi rank. As you see, I have been a perfect gentleman, as promised."
Zahra attempted, and failed at, a little curtsy.
"Good job," she said, and then inwardly shouted at herself good job? really?
"I thank you," he said, and bowed, far more smoothly. "If you have been duly impressed by my gentlemanliness, here is my card. Please feel free to contact me if you would like to share dinner together during your stay here. My treat."
"Oh!" said Zahra, surprised, and especially surprised that he had one of those little silver cardholders, which he had slid the card out of, or that he had a card at all. "I'm sorry, I don't - I don't have a card. Besides. You really want to have dinner with a rude American who doesn't speak French and insulted your coffee?"
He shrugged, a light sparkle behind his eyes.
"Call it a weakness," he said. "I have a fatal flaw, in that I happen to like rude American women who insult Italian coffee."
"That's...very specific."
"Yes. Imagine my surprise at finding just such a one at the airport, no less."
Zahra grinned.
"Well, if I have time in my busy schedule, I might take you up on that," she said. "Maybe I can find more Italian coffee to insult. Or, you know, branch out to other countries, or other styles of coffee."
"You'd do that for me?"
"Sure."
They were smiling at each other, when Zahra suddenly broke the spell, saying:
"Okay! It was really nice to meet you, thank you so much for guiding me out of this insane airport, talk to you later!"
Then she gave him an awkward soft punch in the upper arm, and threw the door of a taxi open with a little too much force and accidentally hit herself with it, before climbing inside and giving him yet another awkward and jaunty little wave.
He waved back, still smiling.
She was just dying inside.
"Uh. The - "
She gave up immediately and just showed the cabbie the name of the hotel attached to the QR code Yvette had emailed her, and he nodded. They were off.
Zahra could feel her cheeks heating with embarrassment. She still had Pierre's card in her glove, and finally looked down at it.
PIERRE ROCHECHOUART, it said, with absolutely no further information.
The card was black, the name was in silver, and on the back, contact information in the form of email, WhatsApp, and a telephone number. No other address to speak of, no further information.
"When I get to the hotel I am Googling the shit outta that guy," she said.
"You go girl," said the cabbie, startling her.
She saw a pair of bright blue eyes in a wizened old face, looking at her in the rearview mirror.
They both laughed, and soon afterward, the cab was on its way into Paris.