Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
9
WINNIE
Alistair was chattier than normal on our walk to the Marais. He pointed out interesting architecture and explained that each arrondissement had its own character, much like any other city.
“They’re distinct neighborhoods, some more commercial than others. The Latin Quarter is the bohemian, artsy section of town,” he reported, pointing across the Seine. “Just over there, beyond Notre-Dame. Did you know the bell in the cathedral is named Emmanuel and weighs over thirteen tons? Did you know there are at least a dozen replicas of the Statue of Liberty in Paris? Did you know the city was originally called Lutetia in Roman times?”
No, of course I didn’t know any of that. I hummed along, stopping to snap pics every so often.
“Why Lutetia?”
“I’m glad you asked. Lutetia Parisiorum. Lutèce is Latin for mud or swamp and the Parisii were the Celtic people who lived here before the Romans. Caesar described the area as a great marsh along the riverbanks, or…Marais, which means swamp. The marsh was drained over the years to make way for proper housing. As far back as the Bronze and Iron ages, the locals would have wanted to be close to the river.”
“Why? Swamps are notoriously smooshy and smelly.” I paused in front of a fashionable boutique, tilting my hat to get a better look at the impressive array of leather goods.
“The Seine has always been an important trading route to other parts of Europe,” he said, motioning me to follow him down one narrow cobblestone street to the next as if he knew exactly where we were heading. “It’s no wonder the Romans wanted it. As with every city they conquered, they made Paris their own. There are countless Roman ruins in the area…baths, a forum, aqueducts, statues, coins. It’s quite amazing.”
The truly amazing thing was that Alistair had all these facts on standby in some corner of his brain where I stored shit like the name of my favorite barista at the Java Joint on Third and the code for the men’s room at the Cantina. I was in awe.
And while I nodded and hummed along, I took a few notes of my own. One, there was nothing swampy about the Marais now. It was peaceful and pretty with high-end shops and cute cafés.
Two, the professor walked with a confident air of someone comfortable in his surroundings. He never once fussed with his glasses, and he hadn’t double or triple-checked for the cell he usually kept in his right-hand pocket.
He was quieter in the Picasso Museum. We wandered through the converted maison with sweeping staircases and ornate ironwork, studying paintings and sculptures, sharing wide-eyed glances.
“What the fuck did he do to her face?” I whispered.
Alistair scrunched his nose and squinted like an owl. “Nothing particularly nice.”
I barked a laugh that echoed off the high stone ceilings and cast an apologetic smile at a fellow tourist.
I leaned against Alistair, linking our pinkies for a beat. “What do you know about Picasso?”
“Nothing much.”
I gasped. “Really? And here I was expecting a report on the great master, Professor.”
“Sorry, but I don’t know modern art.” He tilted his head left and right, then shrugged. “The colors are nice, though.”
“Yes, they’re happy hues. What’s your favorite color?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Of course you do,” I scoffed. “Everyone does.”
“What’s yours?”
“I love bubbly blues, bright pinks, and pernicious purples.”
“Pernicious?” he repeated, eyes alight with amusement.
“Yeah.” I narrowed my gaze as Alistair’s indulgent grin morphed into a belly laugh that boomed off the walls. “What’s so funny?”
“Pernicious means highly destructive, subtly harmful and possibly deadly. You can have pernicious ideas, effects, and thoughts, but a pernicious purple”—he chuckled merrily—“that’s a new one.”
I swatted his arm in mock censure as we strolled past a painting of a woman with two faces staring into a mirror. “How about precipitous purple?”
“That means dangerous.”
“How about…”
“Powerful, passionate, perfect, profound, picturesque, perky…I could go on,” he singsonged.
“Show-off.”
We snickered like idiots and continued through rooms filled with whimsical sculptures and priceless paintings. We made up a game along the way to say the first thing that popped into mind in front of each piece of art.
Alistair took the literal approach. The painting of sunbathers reminded him of summers at Lake Windermere; the woman holding a child looked vaguely like his sister and her son. I went rogue. A blob on canvas was a dead ringer for my abuela’s Chihuahua, Trixie, who my fabulous cat, Liza, loved to terrorize. An early self portrait of Picasso vaguely resembled my landlord’s gym bunny boy toy, Dash.
“A gym bunny boy toy named Dash?”
“Mmhmm. He’s sexy and he knows it. But he’s put together in a Botox, trainer on speed dial, and epic coke habit sort of way. Not so healthy. I steer clear of that nonsense. Or anything that renders me likely to dance on tabletops while incapacitated. I’m thirty-five, honey. On my last go-go boy escapade, I tripped on the gossamer sheath I was wearing over my crop top and Daisy Duke shorts and fell on my ass in the middle of a Donna Summer classic. Mortified isn’t a strong enough word,” I added with a sassy head bob.