Lost in Paris by Elizabeth Thompson (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

I recalled Scott Fitzgerald’s Gatsby and told her I was dying to read it. Before I knew it, Sylvia was pressing a copy into my hands, telling me to take it with me. I hesitated because I had not thought to bring money with me; I had been in such a rush to leave the apartment with Andres.

However, when I tried to hand the book back to her, she wouldn’t take it. She told me I could borrow it. If I liked it and wanted to own it, I could pay her later. If I didn’t think it worthy of my library, I could simply return it at no cost. No questions asked.

I must remember to embroider a bookmark for her to express my gratitude.

I can’t wait to dig into Gatsby so I have something to talk to Zelda about next time I see her.

Eighteen

January 9, 2019—10:30 a.m.

Paris, France

It’s a glorious day for January. Chilly enough for a jacket but pleasant enough for a good long walk. It’s as if Paris has donned her finest to welcome us back.

Armed with a guidebook and a list of points of interest based on Ivy’s diaries, we head to the left bank. Starting at Shakespeare and Company bookstore, we walk to 20 rue Jacob, the home of the American playwright, poet, and novelist Natalie Clifford Barney, who used to hold salons in the same vein as Gertrude Stein’s. From there, we find our way to Stein’s own famous residence at 27 rue de Fleurus. Along the way, we pass by rue de Buci in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés district, a buzzy place with cafés and open markets where vendors sell everything from boutique clothing and flowers to cheese and meats, fruits, vegetables, and olives. We stop by Dingo Bar, La Closerie des Lilas, and the brasserie Les Deux Magots—one of Ivy’s favorite lunch spots.

I try to imagine my great-grandmother walking these streets, making Paris her own. What I wouldn’t give for her to be here now, giving us this tour. More than that, I wish I understood why she thought she had to keep this part of her life a secret from Marla and Gram.

On the way home, we walk along the left bank of the Seine, through the part that is crowded with merchants who sell used and antiquarian books. I’ve recently learned they’re called bouquinistes.

“I think I should bring them here,” I say, gesturing to the stalls. “The green boxes on the walls with all the books have UNESCO status.”

Marla answers me with a blank stare. It dawns on me that she’s a good person to bounce my ideas off of because if she gets it or is entertained, then the average person probably would be, too.

That’s not meant as a slight to her. I fully own the fact that I am a book nerd. Not everyone gets excited about bouquinistes or UNESCO World Heritage designations, and I want this tour to be interesting for everyone.

“Do you know what that means?” I ask.

She shrugs and focuses even more intently on the souvenirs laid out before her in one of the stalls.

“I’m not judging you,” I say in my most nonjudgmental voice.

“You wouldn’t say that if you weren’t. But go ahead. What is so great about these bookanistas? Are they the nerdy sisters of the fashionistas?”

She snickers at her own joke, picks up an old book, and thumbs through it.

“It’s not bookanista. It’s pronounced boo-kee-neest,” I enunciate.

“And you said you’re not judging me.” Marla snorts. “I see.”

She returns the book and moves on down the line of vendors.

“I want to know if you understand,” I say as I trail after her. “I need to know if the content for this tour makes sense. I’m asking for your opinion.”

She turns to me and her face softens. “Okay, try me.”

“Really?” I ask.

She nods.

“Okay.” I clear my throat. “I read last night that these bookstalls have been here for more than five hundred years. There are about nine hundred of these green boxes in the designated areas on both sides of the river.” I rap on the top of one, which is raised to create a canopy. Behind it, I can see Notre-Dame Cathedral.

Marla lifts a brow. “Hmm. That’s interesting. That’s a long time.”

“Exactly! Think about it. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Joyce, and Pound used to walk right where we’re walking and look at the wares like we are right now, searching for books of other authors or maybe even their own work.”

“That works,” Marla says. “Especially if you drive home the fact that the writers used to come here. You could tell them to squint their eyes and pretend like it’s 1927.”

“That’s a great idea.”

For a moment, Marla and I stand side by side, squinting at the people milling about. Some are bartering with the vendors; others have their noses in a book.

“You might want to explain the Costco thing a little better,” she says.

“The what?”

“You said they had some kind of Costco designation.”

It takes everything I have not to laugh. I put my hand over my mouth. Marla looks confused.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s UNESCO, not Costco. That means the United Nations designated this area and its green boxes as a World Heritage site. This area is considered a protected landmark.”

Marla raises her brows. I’m determined to keep her interested.

“Someone, I don’t know who, said the Seine is the only river in the world that runs between two bookshelves.”

“That’s cute. I think your tour people would be interested in knowing that. But just a little bit of constructive input? You might want to enunciate a little better. I could’ve sworn you said Costco.”

Or maybe she wasn’t listening.

“Look, I’m just saying.” Marla crosses her arms. “I’m not suggesting you dumb it down, but don’t make people feel stupid by using hoity-toity terms like booka… booka—”

“Boo-kee-neest.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

I say, “There’s nothing wrong with not knowing something as long as you’re open to learning.”

She stays quiet.

“I didn’t mean to hurt