The Beginning

Ch. 48 - The view

"Where are you taking me?"

The engine of their taxi sputtered as it sped away from where they were dropped, muffling her voice. In some ways, she feels like she is back in Central Park: surrounded by green with faint sounds of car horns and squealing tires still in the background.

"We can't leave Paris without seeing the Eiffel Tower, right?"

She clears her throat, instinctively hugging her arms across her chest.

Taking one step toward the gardens of the Champ de Mars, he looks back over his shoulder at her, wiggling the fingers on his hand.

"You coming?"

She slants her head from side-to-side.

The narrow street is lined with trees and passersby going about their day: dog walkers, people loaded down with shopping bags, and families pushing strollers. Crunchy leaves are strewn all about, occasionally joined by a few newly fallen, drifting down with gusts of wind.

With a gleam in his eye, he stands stock still, waiting.

She relents, slipping her fingers in between his. As he leads her down the sidewalk toward the gigantic iron structure, her jaw slackens. There is a haze in the air, but no hiding the grandeur of the Eiffel Tower.  The hair on the back of her neck raises as each step draws her closer. There is no way to describe the immeasurable size, nor the immeasurable sense of awe when in its presence.

Bundles of trees and bushes roll by as they stroll, but the size and shape of the tower is never altered. It's as though it is the moon seen thru the sunroof, unmoving, while a car flies down the highway. They come to the point of the first arch, now, directly overhead. Her eyes widen and she covers her open mouth with her free hand. As they enter the last few yards, branches of an ancient oak tree shroud the space around them, its leaves representing every color of fall. She inhales deeply, unabashedly peering straight up at the web of metal.

With shining eyes, he relishes her experience. He has seen the Eiffel Tower a few times before, but watching her expression brings him back to his own first trip.

The greenery is cleared away, and they find themselves directly underneath Paris' most famous sight, surrounded by its four arches. The cool, misty, late afternoon left the crowd sparser than expected, alleviating the usual length of the line. In every direction there are signs: where to go, what is allowed, restrooms, restaurants, service buildings. To one side, a small kiosk is labeled "Accueil Tour." A man in a hoodie flings a mango-colored rag over his shoulder as he leans down to lift a green, metal bucket filled with a soapy fluid. His other hand holds a small blue squeegee.

A large, black raven appears small as it swoops well-above their heads, yet it is still not even halfway to the top of the arch. The sounds of metal slamming against metal grow louder, almost drowning out the laughter of children skipping and jumping in circles around parents with maps open and tickets in hand. Men of all shapes and sizes stand around, peddling their wares to anyone giving them a second of attention. Couples pose and kiss while strangers obligingly take their pictures. In the distance, the sound of a French siren demands other vehicles move aside.

After a short wait, they file past the yellow framed glass into an elevator with a group of unsuspecting tourists. The sounds of the city are muted inside the glass panel walls. She scans the group, waiting for recognition if not of her, surely of him, but his beanie and stubble render him incognito enough to be left alone, save for a few admiring stares from some moms in the group. They find their way to the back wall, through the invisible smog of competing colognes and other hygienic sprays that are failing at covering the stale air inside the boxed-in space. Excited chatter in multiple languages bounces off the walls, until the sound of the hydraulics pushing the glass doors shut grabs attention.